


Oath of Fealty

by OnTheWildside



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 37,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4378982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnTheWildside/pseuds/OnTheWildside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With no where else to run, Myranda returns home to the Dreadfort only to be used as a pawn in a sick, twisted game for power. As always, her emotions get the better of her and she no longer has to worry where her loyalties lie. She was always Ramsay's, time could not change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

She lay in bed, eyes wide open. The feelings had returned stronger than the night before and she was restless, tossing and turning in need. She panted, exasperated by her own desires, her lack of self-control had always been her downfall.

It was too hot here in Old Town. The lingering humidity in the air was not what had her tossing and turning and sweating in her night gown. No, it was the tumultuous burn in her loins that had her rubbing her thighs together late into the night.

She hoped above all things that tonight someone would visit. She was thinking that very idea when her door knob turned and a shadow slipped silently into her room. The door had just clasped shut when he whispered. "Are you awake?"

"If I wasn't, I certainly am now." She deadpanned.

"It is precisely that kind of attitude that has you so behind in your studies."

"Did you really come here to talk about my studies?"

He was in front of her before she knew it in the pitch black of the modest, windowless room. "This is part of your studies. I am merely testing your ability to take direction. Compliance when servicing others is the key to serving the gods."

"Is that something I need to work on?" She purred.

"We shall see. Turn over on all fours." He instructed.

The young girl did as she was told, turning on her small cot-like bed only to brace herself on her hands and knees. His hands ruffled her thin skirt up in pleats and rolled it over her jutting hips so that her bare ass was in plain view. His hands wandered further, caressing her ass, using his thumbs to pry her cheeks apart, teasingly. His fingertips fell away from her skin and she craned her neck to see him, but the darkness prevailed.

She felt a void, the abandonment of his touch being denied to her when she craved it most. She whined, rocking her body backwards. She was not rewarded with the feeling of raw, hot man behind her. All that caressed her backside was the hot, summer air of an unventilated room.

"Patience, girl." The older man hissed. His voice was faint and it was dark in the room. She had a good idea who he was, but she was not willing to stake her life on it.

She imagined him untying his breeches and loosening the fabric around his thighs. He must be stroking himself. Men knew nothing of patience. They reveled in control. He was torturing her on purpose to get some kind of self-gratification she did not understand. She had never seen a cock up close before, but she knew all too well what they felt like buried inside of her, filling that void she always felt perfectly and giving her something she could never find on her own.

She focused on staying still, choosing to think only about what was happening inside her. She imagined the broad head of his cock slipping through her wet folds and, as if on cue, it did. He rubbed his full length through the folds of her wet cunt and she felt herself envelope him as he spread her slick juices all the way to the sweet spot at the cleft of her slit. Over and over, he repeated this process, grinding the head of his cock against her pleasure spot and brushing the shaft through her slobbering lips.

She moaned, bucking against his touch to feel the sparks in her ignite with every brush to her engorged clit. "Hush, little fox. They must not hear us." He chastised. "No one must know." He warned before plunging into her tight channel, resisting at first, stretching each ring of muscle rippling inside of her walls. He was thrusting her whole body forward, he shoved her face into the bed.

He stretched her and she felt the exquisite burn of him ripping her open from the apex of her thighs up to her stomach. Everything finally felt complete, but she still was not satisfied. Night after night, the taking of pleasure became more desperate and sloppy. It was the joining of bodies and the clapping of wet skin in carnal sin powered by lust and greed.

As her mind wandered, he pulled out with a sickening pop and moments later, his seed spilled across her backside and dripped down her thighs. She was empty again, but the throbbing need had not subsided.

"Very good, little fox. There may be hope for you, yet." The older man walked towards the door. She could hear his foot falls as she imagined him tying his breeches back up on his way. "Clean yourself up and get some sleep. Sunrise is in a few hours and you need to be ready to greet the day." No light entered the room as he slipped out into the hall and left her alone again, still as needy as when he had arrived.

She used her night gown to wipe the semen off of her behind and hind quarters, but the sticky, used feeling did not wash itself away. It clung to her like her now dampened night clothes.

Unsatisfied, she rolled over onto her back with a huff. Her skin was still clammy and heated, over sensitized from the rough touches of her older teacher, the man who had defiled her and taught her the ways women were to please men.

She closed her eyes and brought her hand under her skirt to pry apart her soused slit. She gathered her own moisture on two practiced fingers and those fingers rose up to gently brush her sensitive bundle of nerves. The teasing touch was not enough for her so she increased the speed, whirling over and over her clit with speed and precision, varying the pressure of her hand for some variety. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, meeting her fingers with a gentle thrust of her hips. "You are a wicked girl." Her mind taunted. "But you belong to me." Another voice hissed in her ear. She pushed two fingers into her cunt as she worked her clit, curling them up to rub the rough place inside of her that made her toes curl. The feint burn ended in a mind numbing explosion that ended all too suddenly. She gasped for air and rocked her palm a few more times, finishing herself off like she was accustomed to doing for most of her adolescent life.

With the smoldering subsiding in her loins, she could finally close her eyes and try to rest, but her mind was running wild, fully awakened by her bodies easing of tension.

She heard her father mocking her in the far reaches of her mind. "What a pitiful little thing. Too ugly and worthless to take a husband. What else am I to do with you, wicked girl? You have become a liability to this family, to my ties to the Bolton's. Alliances are everything here. Lord Bolton can never know what you have done and that bastard of his is not the only one to blame."

He struck her, sending her careening to the floor where she collapsed against the cold stone wall of the Dreadfort. "All you have done is cause me pain. I wish only to be done with you. Maybe this way you will learn some discipline."


	2. Home

She trekked back and forth with the heavy bucket to the well several times in order to fill all the mutt's bowls. They were snarling, ugly beasts, just as she had remembered, though she had not recalled them all being quite so ornery. They were all shades of black with smudges of brown, all of them looking identical to the next ranging in age from young pups to haggard old mongrel. Only two or three males were in the bunch and they shared a kennel in the back. They were visibly more docile than the opposite sex. Each time she unlocked a door to slip water into the trough, she was snapped at. The bitches were starved. She was fresh meat.

It was near dusk and Myranda had not been home but three nights. She arrived at the Dreadfort under the cover of a fresh, new moon and begged one of the gate's guards to fetch her father. She had to plead her way back into his favor after her exile from the Sept. He made her grovel at his feet, made her kiss his shit-smeared boots and offer him her life in return for it. Myranda had never felt more humiliated. She regretted the long journey home in that moment more than even her indiscretions with the Septons and her fall from grace in Oldtown. She could have easily become a whore in the Reach. She could have made good money suppressing her urges with rich, desperate men. Instead, she made a much harder choice, dragging herself back to the home she had been disowned from long ago in exchange for a future she was no longer sure of.

She was older, much more comely and less gawky and awkward than she had been in her pre-teens. Her face was a soft oval, her flesh the color of pale cream, blemish free save for the smattering of delicate beauty marks she bore. She had a seamlessly straight nose, slightly upturned with the perfect delicate point over a set of rose-red, heart shaped lips. Her eyes were large saucers, the purest shade of blue-grey. They were rimmed by lush, light lashes that matched her soft, brown waves. She was tall and slim, a wafty feminine body, full of shame and secrets. She had learned a lot about herself and the world by being abroad, but she was still Myranda. She was still the kennel master's insubordinate daughter. Her father was in high favor with the Bolton's for his unfaltering loyalty. Missing help was rarely questioned at the Dreadfort. If the servants suspected anything, they dare not mention it for fear of becoming the next meal for the hounds.

The secrecy stemmed from the resentment her father held over her. Years in the Reach taught her that. Myranda's birth had been the reason his wife was take from him far too soon and the fact that she was born a girl was a plague upon his soul. As soon as she became of age, he had shipped her off to Oldtown to train to be a Septa, somewhere far away from him. Somewhere he wouldn't have to think about how much she looked like her mother. Somewhere where she would not be risking both of their lives.

It was not the Dreadfort itself that made her skin crawl, not the moats full of skulls and bones, not the Weeping Water's depths, not the howling in the surrounding woods or even the solemn flags dangling from the poles on the outer walls with the grim flayed man insignia. No, she was not frightened to be here because of the legendary Bolton's treacherous reign – it was the memories that had been haunting her dreams since before she left.

Her father took cues from Roose Bolton in her upbringing. The beatings and mental abuse were frequent and crippling. The solace she felt upon leaving was short lived when she found out what hypocrisy and bigotry was awaiting her in the Reach. It was not just the North, no. The whole world was corrupt. Being born female meant having to adapt quickly to save yourself.

She slipped into another cage and the dog behind the gate snapped at her ankles as she attempted to fill the trough with the bucket in her hands. She did not remember the dogs being quite this volatile, especially towards her. When she was young, they had revered her, growing up with her from puppies. She did not recognize a single muzzle. These were all new dogs, taught to shred and kill. They had no interest in making friends. She was frightened up against the wall, spilling half the contents of the bucket down the front of her frock dress.

"Down, Jez. Down." The voice froze her. On command, the dogs all seemed to freeze as well. The mutt at her legs knelt down on her forearms, whimpering for her master's approval. They turned to whimpering beasts at the sound of their master's tempered voice. It was a calm bravado she almost did not recognize but she was not simple. She did not need to look further for an explanation. She knew who was in her presence.

Though she had only been home two full days, she had yet to encounter any of the Bolton's. Roose was deterred somewhere on business and, until a few moments ago, Ramsay Snow had been out for days on one of his frequent hunts.

Myranda slipped out from the stall while she had the chance, slamming the iron gate shut behind her, bracing her back against the stone wall, her matted, tangled hair draping her face like dark curtains as she caught her breath. She was embarrassed to face Ramsay like this. She did not even want to show him her filthy face. She knew she must stink from working all day. Her dress was wet and smudged with grime and she shuddered to think what she must look like. This was not how she pictured seeing her liege's son for the first time in so many years.

"You will have to excuse them, miss. They are particularly hungry this evening. No doubt jealous their sisters got to have all the fun." He chuckled and walked towards her, dressed in fine leathers, a bow and quiver strapped over his shoulder. "I must admit, they get agile when they catch a whiff of fresh moon's blood." He chuckled to himself at his own crude joke.

Clear grey eyes locked on hers beneath the shaggy, dark hair and his lips curled in a devious smile, showing his sharp eye teeth. She knew those eyes anywhere. There were no doubts in her mind that she was face-to-face with Ramsay Snow, Roose Bolton's bastard son. He had aged well but on the whole, he was everything she had remembered him to be. "Well, as I live and breathe." He chuckled, catching her hand in his own. "Myranda." He lifted her hand to his mouth and his lips brushed the back of her knuckles, sending shivers down her spine. "The rumors are true."

She had to clear her throat and gather her courage to speak. "That they are, m'lord." She blushed, averting her eyes.

"Perhaps all of them, then?" He gave her a look that shook her. She instantly knew that he knew everything she had done in the Reach. Absolutely everything, no matter how her father tried to cover their family's shame. Of course Ramsay had ways of making people talk. Of course he would know exactly what she was with just one look. He had always had that innate ability, even as a boy. He mastered in finding information, in reading people. He needed information to be able to manipulate people.

She summoned her courage again. If she learned anything from living in the Reach, it was how to play her own sex appeal to her favor. Manipulation was key. Ramsay knew that. She could only hope he would not see through her. "I s'pose, m'lord, it would depend upon what you have heard."

He seemed amused by her reply, his eyes growing wide and the smirk lingering on his blushing lips. "Ah, dear girl, I have heard many things." He brushed a stray bit of hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek in a whisper. "Look at you, sweetling. You are soaking wet and filthy. You will catch your death in the kennels at that rate. You should not be down here. A creature as sweet as yourself should be in the house making good use of your skills."

"I do my father's bidding, m'lord. I owe him a great deal for taking me in again."

"The same man who sent you to Oldtown in the first place, sweet girl?" He cocked his eyebrows. "I know as well as anyone what sent you to the Reach. You cannot fool me. I see right through you, Myranda." His eyes were appraising her, devouring every inch of her while taking mental notes.

"We can talk of such things later, sweetling." He said finally, clapping his hands. He then whistled, calling the dogs in from the woods. Three beasts galloped into the kennels, looking smug and content. He opened the empty stall doors, one at a time. The dog's knew their places and rushed in the freshly cleaned cages and sopped up some water with their long, pink tongues. "I cannot wait to hear of what has been keeping you busy while you have been away. Things have been rather... Boring without you here at Dreadfort."

"Well, m'lord, if it is your bidding, I hope to make things a bit more interesting since I have returned home." She smiled sweetly.

"I hope nothing but the same." He smirked, he gave her a curt bow before passing her to open the hound's cage beside her.

"Yes, m'lord." She wanted to run, but that would show fear. That was something you never do in front of a man. It was a mistake she could never afford.

His gaze remained locked on Myranda's face. "Jeyne. In." He said simply and Myranda was puzzled for a moment until one of the dogs responded. The last dog, Jeyne, rushed past Myranda's feet, a flurry of black fur. She looked to be only a few months old. She entered the kennel's door and heeled just past the threshold until Ramsay locked the cage behind her.

"After a few days in the woods, I have worked up quite the appetite. I would hope that you will join me for the evening meal, Myranda."

Myranda froze. "Tonight, m'lord?"

He walked to the door before facing her again. "Scurry on home and clean yourself up. I will expect to see you in the private dining hall within the hour. Do you still know your way around the castle, my sweet?"

"I have not finished the kennel mucking, and –"

"I do not believe that is what I asked you, Myranda. When you get home, tell your father he is to muck the stalls and water the hounds himself. It is, after all, his job. A delicate creature such as yourself is far too innocent to be in here alone. Horrible things happen when young girls are left alone with my bitches."

"Yes, m'lord."

"Excellent!" He proclaimed, glaring at her intently. "I will be seeing you shortly."

She had seen that look from him before and, frankly, it stirred something akin to fear in her stomach. It was not the same fear she felt when she heard her father approach, the same terror that raced through her mind when he struck her. No, this was delicious, igniting curiosity in her blood. "As you wish." She assured herself it was the safest option for her and she tarried close behind him as he walked up towards the main house.


	3. I Will Not Bow

Myranda slipped into the manor shortly after her Lord Ramsay. Her father's room was on the first floor, located in the servant's quarters. He shared the floor with a few of Ramsay's men and the kitchen help.

For the past few nights, she had been the only woman in a hall of men. She had been allowed a palette on the floor, near the fire and chamber pot. This was the best she could be afforded under the circumstances.

Her father was not in his chamber when she arrived. Alone, she did not dally ad stripped herself of her sullied dress and filled a basin with fresh, hot water from the pot on the fire. One of the few luxuries she had retained from the Reach was molten sea soap, made of ash and sea water and olive oil. This particular blend had been perfumed with citrus and almond oils, leaving the room smelling of lemons and cherries.

She deemed her shift still clean, only managing to carry one from the Sept along with only two good, basic dresses. All of her serving robes had to be left behind with her dignity at the holy sect.

She pulled off the shift, folding it neatly before laying it on the table beside her wash basin, and stood bare in the cold room behind a sheer room divider. Her nipples were sharp points in the chilly room and her hairs stood on end as she shivered. She was not yet used to the bitter chill of the North.

Myranda dipped a wash rag into the soapy, perfumed water and washed her face first before working her way downward, smoothing the hot, wet rag against her aching, dirty flesh. It was soothing and refreshing. She had just dipped the rag between her legs when the door opened.

"Daughter." The rasping voice called from beyond the partition.

"I am indecent, father." Myranda replied.

"Nothing I was not already aware of." He walked around the divider to glare at his naked progeny. "You have forsaken me and abandoned your duties."

Myranda did her best to cover herself, shielding her nakedness from her patron in shame. She was shy to the eyes of men, feeling dirtier for his sharp glare. "Lord Ramsay returned from his hunt, father. I did not mean to forsake you, but my Lord wished me to leave the kennels and join him for supper."

Her father scoffed and walked off. She heard the decanter of wine open and glass filled near after. "I had feared this would happen." Her father cursed.

Myranda slipped her shift over her head and fixed her hair, running a dab of sweet almond oil through it with a brush before rounding the partition in the room.

"I have not had a chance to beg for your return to the fort. I had hoped Lord Roose would arrive before his bastard son had a chance to sink his teeth into you."

"Father, I –"

"Silence! Women do not speak until spoken to!" He growled. He rounded the table to take a seat, placing his goblet down to run his hand over his worn face. "Tis no matter. I would have found you work in the castle, he would have sniffed you out eventually. There is not a bitch in this fort who is not at risk. I tried to get you away from here, to save you from this place. It is what your dear mother would have wanted. You ruined everything by returning here." He grunted, breathing heavily through his nose before sighing, completely defeated. "I suppose this was your destiny, to be a common whore in the Lord's manor. It is far better than you deserve."

Myranda was beside herself, but she dare not open her mouth. Her father fumed for a few moments that carried on into eternity before he opened his mouth again. "If you are to be a whore, do not disgrace me further by not satisfying your Lord and being cast aside. I will not look after a bitch with your namesake, Myranda. I am nothing if not loyal to my vassal, but I would never stand for such an injustice against your mother."

Truly puzzled, Myranda remained quiet, contemplating her father's words. Word of the atrocities at the Dreadfort had reached the south in her time. There were not many things she did not remember from her childhood. She had heard tale of torture and murder, nothing out of the ordinary, but the missing servant girls were becoming a common occurrence. It was something foreign, something not allowed before Ramsay had become of age. Roose was a fair and just man with a ruthless streak. He would not callously kill someone without just cause. Her father was admitting to her that Ramsay was a heartless murderer. Had she been a smart girl, she would have been frightened, but she could not find it in herself to care.

"Come here, girl. On your knees." He advised her. She dare not decline. She knelt in front of him, the cold, wet slate digging into the soft flesh of her knees. His hand was rough, bruising her neck as he held her gaze steady, looking her in the eye. "Swear to me you will be compliant. Swear you will do everything in your power to keep his interest. Swear to me you will fulfill every desire willingly and will not wield your wicked tongue." When she remained silent, he grabbed her arms roughly, causing bruises, and shook her. "Swear it, Myranda! Do not bring shame to this family! Both of our lives are at risk, now!"

"I swear!" Myranda cried, tears brimming her eyes. "I swear! I will do what he says!"

"You must keep your terrible secret, Myranda. Lord Bolton will have your head on a pike if he knew. You'd be raped and flayed alive for what you did."

"It has been years –" Myranda snapped.

"It matters not how long it has been! A man never forgets the loss of a child!"

Myranda glared at her patron. "Is that so, father? Tell me, did you mourn losing me?"

"You are not dead, but perhaps you should be." He used his brute force to shove her backwards, away from his feet. "Go. Do not keep your master waiting."

Myranda, freshly scrubbed and clothed, arrived to the private dining hall before her lord's bastard son. She could physically feel bruises forming under the long sleeves of her finest blue dress. She wore the color solely to emphasize her eyes, but had also managed to bring out the blue-purple of the bruises necklacing her throat. She kept her demeanor calm despite how shaken she truly was. She became a master at keeping herself reserved despite her true feelings.

Two covered dishes sat parallel to one another on the table, but there were no signs of Ramsay Snow. Not sure what else she should do, she walked about the room and looked out the small arc-shaped window that provided most of the light in the dim, northern castle. The sun was setting on Westeros and the walled-in servants and peasants all took cover for the night below the manor. They were all ants in a broken hill, scattering for cover.

"Good, you are here." Ramsay's voice enveloped the entire room. He stood in the doorway, hands clasped out in front of him. He had disrobed of his hunting gear, wearing only simple breeches and a loose fitting leather shirt, synched at the waist. "Come. Sit. Eat."

She obeyed, following Ramsay's orders. Once Myranda was seated, Ramsay uncovered his plate. "This looks scrumptious." He declared. "I'm sure it was better when it was still warm."

She bit her tongue, uncovering her own plate and gathering her fork to begin picking at her food. A few quiet moments passed before she could not bear it any longer. "How did your hunt fair, m'lord?"

"Most excellent. A fantastic hunt indeed."

"Any wolves in the wood?" She recalled her father training the dogs to fight and win against the wood wolves.

"No, terrible time for wolves, girl." He shook his head as he wiped his mouth. "You have forgotten much since being away."

She held her tongue. "Then what were you hunting, my lord?"

Ramsay chuckled. "It's not so much of a "what" as it is more of a "who"." The girl's eyes grew wide in surprise and Ramsay laughed more. "You should see your face! Silly girl, I was only fooling with you!" He cackled some more and Myranda made an earnest effort to laugh along with him. "It no longer matters. The hounds tore it to bits."

"Oh." She muttered, picking at her plate once more.

"Excellent practice for the hounds. I have taken the liberty of training them with a bit more… malice than your father." Ramsay boasted. "It was a wonderful afternoon, though I expect it to be a more exhilarating evening." Ramsay mused, taking another bite of his meal. "Enough about me." He announced, clearing his throat. "I suppose we must get to the terrible business at hand." He hummed, taking a sip of rich, red wine. "Since father is away in the Riverlands, it is up to me as acting lord of the Dreadfort to determine whether or not you can be allowed to stay." He sighed. "While it pains me to think of turning you away, it would be rather biased of me to keep you here on my own accord. You can see what a terrible predicament it is, my sweet girl?"

"Yes, Lord Ramsay." Myranda whispered the words.

"It was a very bold choice for you to wallow here on your underbelly after being turned away. It takes a lot of balls to come back. To admit you turned your back on the gods and given into carnal sins of the flesh. I have to admire you for that."

Myranda blushed, casting her gaze downward. "I beg your pardon, my lord."

"Oh, dear girl… I will have to ask you to beg more than that…" Ramsay snickered. He threw her off. "While you were preparing for supper, I was thinking long and hard about how I would approach this conversation. My father has left me in charge and will expect me to delegate in a manner much like he himself would in this situation. I thought of him and his high regard for your father. He is a just and fair man, he himself took me in when I was but a boy."

Myranda remembered that day well. He came to the lord's manor at the tender age of twelve when his mother took gravely ill and passed away. It was common knowledge that Lord Bolton had bought the woman out to keep her mouth sealed about the secret child they shared. He had provided her with a farm and a livelihood outside of the manor house so he would not have to fund their lives directly.

Myranda was only nine, but she remembered seeing Ramsay for the first time. He was a terrible, unruly, brooding little thing. He was hateful, angry with his mother for leaving him and with a father he had only just met who greeted him with malevolence and animosity. He often went to the woods for hours by himself. When he was not there, he was most likely tormenting his younger half-brother, Domeric, as well as various other children within the manor's walls, Myranda included.

"I remember the first time I saw you. You always were a gawky young thing." He murmured, taking another bite before clearing his throat. "Glad to see you've grown out of that." His eyes were ravenous.

She stuttered at first, looking to her plate to avert his stare. "I believe I have grown in a lot of ways."

"Is that so?" He shot her a knowing glance, testing her. "I would like to be able to experience that all first hand. For the time being, I will allow you to stay here in Dreadfort. In return, I will require you to put your learned skills to good use here in the manor. Your duties will be carried out within these walls alone."

"But my father –"

"Will do his lord's bidding." Ramsay finished the statement, cutting her off completely.

"Yes, my lord."

"I will not allow a ravishing creature such as yourself to be mucking dog kennels."

Myranda did not know how to reply. She was too caught up on what Ramsay had just said.

Ramsay grew bored very quickly. "I can hear your mind working from here, Myranda. What is it you are thinking?"

Myranda pushed her mostly-empty plate away from her and wrapped her arms around her middle. "You called me 'ravishing.'"

"Is that what I said?" He laughed.

Myranda pouted, already anxious and now she was baring her feelings only to be shut down.

He pushed his empty plate away and leaned across the table, face engulfed in dim candle light. "Has no one really ever told you that before?"

She honestly shook her head.

"Tell me, were there many blind Septons in the Reach?" When she did not reply, he carried on. "If all the stories are true, then they must have had some type of attraction to you."

"That might be true, but no one has ever said that about me." She whispered.

"And perhaps that is because it should be painfully obvious."

"People love to point out the painfully obvious." She quipped.

"People bore me." Ramsay sighed. "I would much rather play games with people then have to deal with them."

"Games, m'lord?"

He quickly changed the subject. "Myranda, you were in Oldtown for how long?"

Myranda was startled into stuttering. "Five years, m'lord."

"Five years… And tell me, lovely girl… In five years, have you learned to draw a bath?"

She bit her tongue to keep from cursing him. "I excelled at it, m'lord."

"Excellent!" Ramsay exclaimed, walking over to Myranda. "I have been in the woods for three days and am in need of a good scouring." He held his hand out to her and she accepted. He practically drug her down the hallway until they reached the winding stairwell. He pushed her out in front of him, hand on the small of her back to lead her up to his chambers.

They made it up to his chambers and he pushed the door open and led her inside. He showed her the privy in the corner of his room and as she filled the tub with hot water, he slipped out the door. It took hours. The sky was completely black by the time she had finished. At almost the same time, Ramsay returned.

"Are we done yet, sweet girl?" He called to her.

"Almost."

Ramsay rounded the corner of the room's division and was stark naked. Myranda's eyes raked his body hungrily, curiously. He was unashamedly nude, proudly standing in front of her. She had never seen a naked man up close before and she was entranced by his cock. Long, thick shaft, cushioned by a swinging set of testes, all leading up to a protruding, round head. It was limp and dangling, but growing steadily in her presence. "You are staring, love."

She blushed, but did not look away. "Pardon me, m'lord. I just – I have never seen one in person before."

"Never seen a cock?" He chuckled, grasping his manhood in one hand, rolling the entire region in his palm.

Myranda shook her head, trying in earnest to look away with little success. It was always dark." She whispered, standing to her full height beside him. Her palms itched to touch it, but she did not want to seem too eager. She was afraid of rejection. "Are you going to bed me, m'lord?"

He brushed her dark locks back over her shoulders and regarded her carefully. His gaze locked on the graceful expanse of her neck. He touched a few spots, gently prodding with his fingers. It took a moment for her to realize the burning in his touches stemmed not from lust, but from the tenderness of fresh bruises. He touched every mark left by the pressure points in her father's hand before murmuring. "No, my sweet. That is not the game we play. If I have you in my bed, I will own you completely. For that, you will have to beg. You will beg me to fuck you, and then you will do everything I say. I do not think you know what that would mean yet." He kissed her cheek and pushed her away. "It is late. Off to bed with you. Damon is waiting by the door to show you to your new rooms. I will manage by myself here." He stepped over the tub and she watched the way his body moved and settled as he sat down. His body was embraced by the hot water, but she could still see the distorted shape of his half-hard cock.

She did not linger long, though. She shook herself from her trance and began to take her leave when Ramsay called to her one last time. "Oh, and Myranda?"

She stopped, casting him a cautious glance over her shoulder, still confused by the past few minutes in his presence.

Ramsay smirked at her. "We keep each other's secrets, remember?"


	4. Lights Out

_Myranda entered the room quietly, careful not to disturb the serenity of deep prayer. She hung her head and waited for her superior's acknowledgment._

_"You asked to see me, Myranda?" The High Septon sat in silence, alone in the room save for the statue hovering over them._

_Myranda never truly considered herself religious and had only agreed on coming to Oldtown to appease her father and repent the mistakes she had made in her past. The longer she stayed here, the more hypocrisy and bigotry she saw running rampant in this high, holy place. She was beside herself, feeling sheltered and confused. The only way she would be able to think, be able to breathe, she would have to leave._

_Coming clean would have her exiled and banished. She resolved within herself that telling a white lie would only be a benefit to her under these circumstances. She was not alone in the sins she had committed. She did not need to see anyone else suffer because of her. "Yes, sir. It is my father. He has fallen ill and I have been summoned to the North to pay my respects." The lie rolled from her tongue like a rolling wave from the Sunset Sea against the shore._

_The Highest priest sat in contemplative silence for what seemed like ages. "We shed our old lives to be here, dear girl. Lest we forget that? Training here requires the ultimate sacrifice. You should consider yourself an orphan, be solely dedicated to your gods and your learning to appease them, bettering yourself to best serve them." He began. Myranda felt shame. "You women, though you have no rights, can use for high purpose your virginity. The seven hold in high regard a pure heart." Myranda felt the guilt pressing heavily on her shoulders and she fell to her knees at the man's feet. "No matter what sins are causing you to second guess your decision to be here, I cannot force you to stay. You are doing no one any good pretending to be devout when eternal damnation is at stake. It is something pure that must rise from within each one of us." For the first time, the High Septon looked down at Myranda. "Rise, girl. I will not be the one to hold you accountable for your actions, nor will I aid you in them. Pack your things and leave this place. This life is not for you."_

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The bed was quite comfortable; four high posts supported a regal, shimmering gold canopy with intricate embellishments. The mattress had been stuffed to the brim and supported her weight evenly without sending shooting pain through her narrow, angular hips as she lay there, sleepless. This new room was lavish, complete with a sitting area and dressing table, all deep mahogany embellished with gold accents that stood out in the dark quarters.

Myranda was having another restless night despite the new comforts she had been afforded. The new surroundings had her feeling disoriented and alone, but that was not the only factor keeping her from getting rest. Not only was there desire churning in her loins for her childhood tormentor, but she could not seem to get his words out of her head.

"We keep each other's secrets, remember?"

She did not fully understand what he meant, but she wanted to find out. She could not believe that after all these years, he would think so little of her. The story they shared would hurt both of their families. She would not cause her father more pain and shame. She was not so stupid as to risk her own life.

It hurt that after all this time apart, they finally reunited and began to connect and Ramsay so easily pushed her away. Ramsay understood her better than anyone else. Their fathers resented their very existence and abused them for merely that. Their mother's died before their time. They both had callings from beyond their understanding. They were tethered together forever, despite how much they tried to deny themselves their very nature.

He was a fine male specimen, dark and fit. His muscles rippled in a way that only came from hard work and an active lifestyle. You could not deny that he was handsome in the most dangerous way. Her curiosity peaked after she caught her first real glimpse at the male anatomy. Her mind wandered and she thought of all the things he could do to her, all the ways he could make her body feel alive.

Not only was there a deep, emotional connection forged between them and an intense physical attraction on Myranda's behalf. No, Ramsay Snow had called her beautiful. No, not just beautiful. Ravishing, he had called her. No man had ever said that about her and she felt as though she was floating on a cloud.

It was desire and curiosity that drew her from her bed in the middle of the night. The room was not equipped with much besides lavish furnishings and basic necessities. There was no clothing provided in the room, but there was a dressing robe hanging over the room divider near the main door.

She threw the robe on over her modest shift and left her new living quarters towards Ramsay's rooms, bare feet padding on the cold, damp slate. One set of stairs and a hallway separated her from her goal. Myranda's new room was located beside the stairwell on the floor directly below Ramsay's. She was still one floor above the man she called her father, one full rung above sleeping on a pallet on his cold, wet floor, one floor below the man she wanted to possess her body.

Damon, the fair-haired young man who guided her to her new rooms, had called it "Whores Hall." He had not touched her with his hands, but his eyes swiftly ate away her clothes and made her feel exposed in a new way. She knew what he must think of her, but she was too enthralled in belonging in this new world to find it in herself to care. She was born her, this was her rite, but being gone had taught her that everything she had ever desired was a mistake, a sin. Ramsay was offering her redemption, something she had always craved. She would do anything to grasp that in her fingers.

Years of hunting with her father taught her how to be swift and silent long before she had joined the grey order. She snuck from her chambers and up the stairs quickly and quietly. Her robe fanned out delicately behind her as she rushed down the hallway to Ramsay's door. Before she could muster the courage to knock, her ears were greeted with vulgarity. Curses and screams into the night in the heated passion of carnal lust, something akin to fear.

Rage and embarrassment bloomed inside of Myranda's insides as she fought off tears. She had made a grave mistake, being so stupid so naive. She should have known she was not the only one after Ramsay's affections. She should have thrown herself at him when she had the chance. She had been forgotten as easily as she had arrived, both under the cover of darkness and costing her her dignity.

She cared not if she was heard or caught outside of her rooms at this late hour. She stormed back down the stairs to her room in a huff, fighting off tears. When she left the flight and turned onto the corridor, she slammed right into a broad, strong chest, the smell of ale assaulting her senses on contact. "And what do we have here?" The man chuckled.

He was tall and handsome in a very rugged way, not the clean, boyish way she saw Ramsay. His hair was dark and far too long, almost covering his eyes and his skin was pale and smeared with dirt and what appeared to be dried blood. She did not recognize the man, only the demeanor. She knew he was one of Ramsay's boys and that fact alone put her in grave danger.

"Sniveling whore, out in the halls at night, all alone?" He mused. She tried to pull away, but he gripped her wrists and held her wafting frame steady against his bulk. He was strong and faster than he looked. "I do not recall seeing you here before." She opened her mouth to scream, but he cut her off with a firm, broad hand over her mouth. She bit his palm and he ripped his hand from her mouth, but she did not try to scream again. "Do not be stupid, bitch." He warned. "In the hall of whores, that is a common sound. No one is coming to save you. Right now, you are at my mercy." She knew he was right. She should not try to fight back. It would make things worse for herself. She should not try to call for help. If someone else came, they may try to join in. He spun her around, cheek against the cold, damp stone of the hall. He sunk his teeth into her shoulder like a male cat, holding her in place as though she were in heat and he was responding to her natural urges. He hiked up her skirts, bending her for the taking.

Just as with the first time at the Sept, she was wet from her own desires, the unavoidable lust plaguing her since her first moon's blood. It was not forged from the situation or the partner. It was because it was a part of who she was and as he forced his cock inside of her, she could not think of anything but the fire igniting inside her loins being fanned and nursed to full potential.

His hands were on her waist and she gripped his wrists, not pushing him away, but spurring him on. Her nails dug into his flesh, holding him there. With every pump of his hips, she felt that fire burn brighter. His cock was bellowing it to new heights and she could not help but respond, pushing herself onto it with a ferocity she never could have dreamed of. He grunted in pleasure, not saying anything with words but using primal instinct to claim her figure.

Her nails dug into his hands, clawing him more as he fucked her. She accepted the situation for what it was and sadistically urged him on. She was but an animal. She wanted to submit to the urges. She wanted to feel alive.


	5. Dance With The Devil

The next morning, Myranda woke with the sun. Her body ached in a blissful way and she felt exhausted from self-pleasure. She contemplated getting up, but declined the thought when she remembered what happened to her the night before when she wandered the halls alone. As if reading her mind, there was a rap at her door and large old woman came in carrying a tray of fine fruit and wine. "I have brought you breakfast, my lady." The woman announced.

She was followed by a thinner, younger woman carrying a cushion, tape wrapped around her arms. "And I have been summoned to gather your measurements, my lady. I have been told you are in need of fine dresses."

"I have my own dresses." Myranda said, defensively.

"Yes, I am sure, But Lord Ramsay insisted upon it, I am afraid. He would like you to have more... appealing options."

Myranda blushed and rose from bed. She nibbled at fruit as the woman took her measurements, deeming her "too tall" and "far too thin."

The larger woman told Myranda she was to occupy the bottom two floors of the manor and not to venture upstairs unless called upon. She also told her that Lord Ramsay had requested she find ways to entertain herself as he would be preoccupied until further notice.

"He could not tell me himself?" Myranda seethed, her anger from the night before flourishing once more.

"He was very adamant, I am afraid." The large woman shrugged. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I will be serving you your meals in your chambers."

"And your dresses should be done within a few days, my lady." The dress maker informed her.

"Thank you." Myranda sat down to pout in solitary confinement.

She spent the next two days alone, reading about faraway places with her doors locked shut. No one came to her except the women; the larger woman continued to bring her meals a three times a day. The dress maker visited her on the eve of the third day to bring her her latest creations.

She lay a pile of fine fabrics on the woman's four-poster bed, laying them out one at a time. "I only made three to start, but I have a few other ideas. With such a slim frame, it just makes my job easier." The woman beamed. First, she showed Miranda a fine new shift, much fancier than her own with fine lace and embroidered flowers near the neckline. "I noticed yours was tearing." She explained. "I designed the dresses to not need the undergarments, but I imagined you may want it to sleep in."

"It is lovely." Myranda marveled over the soft fabric.

"I made two basic dresses." She handed Myranda one of a deep, creamy blue. "One blue." Myranda fiddled with the laces on the neckline. It plunged deep, almost to the waist of the dress. It bore pointed, long sleeves and looked rather snug, but easily accessible from the front. The woman handed Myranda an exact replica of this dress, only it was a different hue. "And one green." She said. "I imagined they would only enhance your lovely eyes, my lady."

"They are beautiful."

The woman grinned. "I made one more." She picked up the last dress, this one bearing a much fuller skirt of the darkest, finest material she had ever seen. The hem of the bust was cut straight down in a perfect "V" but the dress was so structured and fine that it held form all its own. The front was embellished with sharp, light purple flowers, caressing where her bosom would rest, draping down the front at an angle along the waist and trimming the skirt.

"Belladonna." Myranda whispered and pulled her hand away as if the dress had scorched her.

"A suggestion by Lord Ramsay." The girl admitted. Myranda's face burned. He was taunting her, then. "It is a bit fancier. I made it for the party this evening." She explained.

"Party?" Myranda's trance on the dress was broken and her eyes met that of the seamstress.

"Ah, yes, my lady. Lord Bolton has returned home from his trip abroad. We are holding a dinner tonight in his honor."

"And I am to go?" Myranda queried.

"Yes, my lady. Lord Bolton insisted. He wishes to see the woman you have become, to welcome you home. Tis a good sign, my lady." She smiled, laying the dress neatly on the edge of the bed. "Maggie will be back to help you dress, my lady." She curtsied and took her leave.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- 

Myranda was fully bathed and primped before she got dressed. Per the seamstress's suggestion, Myranda decided to forgo her shift and put the dress directly on her naked body. Everyone would be looking at her for the dress alone and she marveled at the woman's technique and skill. The dress fit her perfectly, cut to her every curve and slope of her pure feminity. She could scarcely breathe, though that may be the nerves.

The large woman, Maggie, synched her waist and walked Myranda to the large dining hall where almost everyone was gathered already. She must have been the last one of the last to arrive. She was already so nervous, knowing Lord Bolton was expecting her, expecting to speak with her.

Of course, she was also dreading running into her attacker from the other night. She would not know how to react if he had uttered a word to anyone else in the castle about what had transpired that night.

Above all, though, she was nervous to see Ramsay. He had been catering to her every whim and desire through third parties for the past three days, but they had yet to interact since she had seen him naked, since she had found him fucking someone else, since she had fucked someone else. She shook the thoughts from her head and continued down the corridor.

She took a deep breath as Maggie left her alone in the doorway. She must enter the room by herself. She summoned all of her courage and pushed herself forward.= before she could lose the nerve.

Instead of focusing on the stares and whispers, she scanned the room for familiar faces. She spotted a few of the help who had aided her through her first few days back at Dreadfort holding decanters and trays of food. Their looks seethed jealousy and she looked away quickly, privately pleased with herself.

She spotted her father, seated proudly at the second table. To his left was the blond man, Damon, and to his right rest a few more men, dressed similarly with the same vigor and mannerisms as a faithful servant to the Bolton's.

At a broad table in the center of the room, facing all the others, sat Lord Roose Bolton. To his right, another dark man with a short beard and lengthy hair, dressed in dark furs. He was terribly handsome in the most lethal way. To his left sat Ramsay. He wore dark leathers, all topped off with a fine cloak made of grey fur that caused his eyes to sparkle with mischief.

All the men were boisterous, laughing loudl, unruly in a drunken stupor. A few more scantily clad women clung to some of the men. A few were accompanied by wives. No one seemed to have noticed her entry into the hall. She felt an odd wave of comfort wash over her until her name dangled from a set of lips. As soon as Ramsay uttered her name, all eyes were on her.

"Come, come sweet girl." Ramsay chided. "We will not bite."

"Speak for yourself." The bearded man on the right of Lord Bolton laughed.

Lord Bolton held his hand up to his companion, silencing him. "Enough. Come now, Myranda. Into the light so I may look upon you."

Cautiously, Myranda followed instruction. She walked through the great hall, right up to the Lord's table and bowed her head, hands clasped tightly in front of her. She stood there quietly for a few heart beats before Lord Bolton spoke. "This is truly your prodigal daughter, Ben?"

Her father seemed amused. "That she is, my lord."

"I never would have guessed that the ugly little brat who taunted my sons would turn into this lovely creature before me now." He mused. "Chin up, girl, so that I may look at you."

It took every ounce of self-control she had to tilt her chin up towards her Lord. "You look every bit like your mother."

"Thank you, my lord. It is my wish to govern myself with such grace and dignity as she."

"You are off to a great start." The bearded man cackled sardonically.

Ramsay nearly snapped when Myranda hung her head in shame. "Enough, Locke." Roose chastised his right hand with one silent look, then turned back to the center floor. "My bastard tells me that your duties in the Sept have made you invaluable to my household."

Myranda was stunned. Despite his cold demeanor, Ramsay appeared to be on her side. "I excelled in my studies, m'lord."

"My bastard also informs me that in my absence, he has granted you fortitude in my home. Though, I would have liked to have made the decision myself…" He nearly growled, looking to Ramsay, who quickly folded himself back into his seat. "Due to your family and upbringing, I can see no reason why you should not be allowed to stay here at the Dreadfort."

"We welcome all forms of depravity, here." The man, Locke, chuckled.

"Have a seat, dear girl." Lord Bolton dismissed her. "And let the feast begin!"

A kitchen servant came to Myranda's side and escorted her to a table near the far wall where a few other women sat. They wore dresses similar to the matching set in her new chambers, only not as low cut down the front, still nearly dangling off of their shoulders.

Myranda was a size or two smaller than the thinnest woman here thanks to the fresher food and fasting she endured in the Reach. Most of the girls were curvier and blonde, one had hair the color of sparkling copper. All of them were glaring straight at her. They all ate in silence, all seething jealousy at one another, lying in wait.

The noise in the great hall was dulled only by the cacophony of nourishment and gratitude. It was less than an hour before the murmurs and laughs turned to drunken yells and loud grunting. It was truly a celebration.

Plates cleaned and goblets drained, the girls seated near Myranda took the opportunity to mingle in the open center of the room with various men. Myranda need not wonder long what was expected of her, as the tall, bearded man, Locke, came to her side.

"Please give me the honor of your first dance, my lady." He offered her his hand. She glanced around the room suspiciously before cautiously taking his hand. "Do you not find me worthy, my dear?" Locke feigned offense.

"Oh, no, my lord. It is just that – well, I am rather nervous." She stuttered.

He cast her a snide grin. "Do not fear, lovely girl. I will break you in well."

She shuddered, but accepted his dance, always looking over her shoulder. Ramsay was on the other side of the room, laughing jauntily and drinking with this towering blonde with long, thick curls. Her hand lingered on his chest as they joked, but his eye caught Myranda's none the less. He smirked at her, and she turned away. Jealousy reared its ugly, green head and it took everything in her not to run across the room and rip the girl's ugly, fair locks from her head.

"Should I take offense that your mind seems to be elsewhere as you spend time with me, my sweet?" Locke growled in her ear. She could smell the wine on his breath, his hand caressing just above her backside.

"Just overwhelmed, my lord." She sighed, gifting him a demure smile. "It has been so long since I have danced these halls."

"Ah, and never in my presence, sweet. I apologize. I oft forget how…overwhelming my presence can be on the fairer sex."

"I find it mesmerizing." Myranda teased, flirtatiously.

The song changed tempos in their midst and Myranda was swept around the room by her vassal's right hand. Locke looked gruff and oafish, but he was swift and light on his feet. The wine went straight to Myranda's head as they spun and she barely noticed Lord Bolton come up behind them. "I will take over here." He said, his voice firm and calm. Locke shot him a questioning look, but stepped away from the girl, kissing her knuckles before casting her aside. "It has been a pleasure, dear."

Roose's hand locked on Myranda's elbow and he walked her to the center of the room where she spun into him, against his broad, firm chest. "I hope he did not scare you."

Myranda smirked. "I believe his bark is worse than his bite, my lord."

Roose chuckled. "Then I believe you are mistaken, my dear. Looks can be deceiving."

She found herself shaken by these dark admissions and looked away. The tempo in the music waned and she found her reclaimed lord drawing her closer, swaying her slowly, melodically, pressing her dangerously close to his chest.

His voice was firm. Just above a whisper. "I have spoken with your father."

His claim was vague. She was afraid to ask the implications of such words. "I'm sor-"

"Silence." He placed a finger to her pouting pink lips. "He and I have come to an agreement of sorts." He paused a moment, but she dare not ask him to elaborate further. She swayed patiently under his firm grasp. "I allowed you to come home to the Dreadfort, not only because I treasured your parent's unyielding devotion to me over the years nor was it because your father is one of my closest companions. I admit, I can use that knowledge to my advantage." He hummed. "I want to use you."

Myranda froze, eyes wide like a young fawn, searching for guidance from its mother.

Roose smiled maliciously. "Glance over my left shoulder. Carefully, now. Do not attract attention." Myranda did as she was told, looking over Lord Bolton's shoulder. "Tell me what you see."

He was directing her attention to Ramsay and his men. Ramsay and Locke sipped wine from fine goblets, laughing at each other's foolishness as their chests were petted by beautiful women. She quickly looked away, jealousy blooming in her chest again. "I see Lord Ramsay and your men, drinking themselves into a fine stupor, being cajoled by whores."

Roose chuckled at her brazenness. "Jealousy does not suit you, pet."

"I am not jealous." Myranda snapped, immediately silencing her wicked tongue.

Roose stilled, locking his hand on her chin and forcing her gaze. He was eerily calm as he spoke. "If you are to live in my home, you will watch how you speak to me, girl."

"I apologize, my lord."

Roose began to dance slowly again, but did not release her chin. "Your tongue is sharp, my dear. That will either serve in your favor, or be your greatest downfall." He placed his thumb over her lips to keep her quiet. "Look at my bastard again. Tell me what you see. This time, look harder."

Reluctantly, she cast her eyes in the direction of the ruckus laughter once again. Ramsay was still wrapped in the blonde. She was pawing at him, cackling loudly in his ear. He had almost drained his goblet when she bumped his arm, spilling the tiniest bit of maroon liquid onto his clothing. Ramsay's face turned red and the blonde cowered at his feet, pleading with him to no avail. He backhanded her and the other men laughed.

"Your son is merciless."

He scoffed. "That may be true, but you are not looking hard enough."

She sighed and tried again. The whore picked herself up, holding her cheek as she sobbed, facing away from the men. The blond she knew as Damon poured wine on her in return. It was unnecessarily cruel, what they did. It did not surprise her, though. She tried to pay closer attention as Roose spun her around the room. She glanced away for one moment and her eyes returned to the scene, noticing the tiniest detail. Gray, stormy eyes glaring at her from across the room. "He's staring at us." She whispered.

"Not us, girl." Lord Bolton corrected. "You. He is infatuated with you."

"But there are others."

"There will always be others, my dear. Ramsay grows bored with his toys like an impudent child. I think we have an advantage, though." Roose stopped dancing. Myranda clutched to his arms, her mind dizzy from the wine and the dancing and the proposition at hand. "You and my bastard share a history. You practically grew up together. You were there when his mother died… After my Domeric passed… You share a common bond." Lord Bolton looked distant for a moment, mourning his son silently. He quickly recovered, wearing the mask of a cold-hearted killer again. "I will be frank with you, girl. That is the only way this will work. Ramsay has yet to grow out of his… unruly phase. I keep giving him more and more responsibility, hoping his urge to please me will break him of his… perverse pleasures. Nothing has worked. I leave for a fortnight and come home to another servant girl missing. I think keeping you around will allow me reigns to control Ramsay."

Myranda did not know what to say. She stared blankly at her Lord for some time. "How could I possibly do that?" She whispered.

Roose Bolton's arm left her waist. He left the smallest space between them and used a single finger to point to her womanhood. "Ramsay has few loves, my dear. You hold the key to his undoing between your legs." He gave her a moment to soak it in. "He likes to believe he is in control, but this is my castle, Myranda."

"You ask much of me, my lord."

"This is not a request, my dear. This is me telling you what you will have to do to survive. You have every advantage at your disposal to trick my bastard into believing he is in control. Use your cunt to gain the upper hand and keep yourself alive." Roose warned. His fingers brushed her cheek as he pulled away from her and swept away across the hall's floor.

She could not move, her feet feeling heavy. Roose Bolton had made her an offer she dare not refuse and her father was in support of it. She was to be a household whore and use her feminine wiles to seduce Lord Ramsay and subdue him. She would not face the consequences otherwise.


	6. Here We Are

Myranda pulled herself from her startled state to retire to her rooms. She found herself overwhelmed with the night's events and she needed to unwind in the only way she knew how. She slipped out of the great hall quietly, stopped abruptly by soft hands grabbing her wrist. She turned in the darkness of the hall.

This time, Ramsay Snow's light touch was the one sending shivers up her spine. "Trying to make me jealous, sweetling?"

"No, my lord." Myranda smiled sweetly, despite the startling circumstances. "Only being agreeable."

"Ah, yes. And the other night? That was you 'being agreeable' as well?" Ramsay teased.

Myranda's knees nearly buckled right there, but she summoned all of her self-control, keeping herself upright in front of her Lord. Of course he knew. He had defended her to his father to invite her to work in the manor only to toy with her and now she was as good as dead. Her father was right. She was a disgrace and she would pay dearly for being so stupid. Roose Bolton's promises seemed to fall at her feet as she pictured just what Ramsay was planning for her behind those cool, gray eyes of his.

"Oh, do not fret, my dear. I wish to invite you to accompany me. I would like to give you a reward. A surprise, really. Come. I have much to show you." He took her hand and walked her out of the great hall, past the kitchens to a corner in the main corridor. Behind a great, hulking tapestry hid a secret door leading to a set of stairs. Ramsay snatched a torch from the wall of the main hall and held the tapestry away for the lady Myranda to slip behind it. "Watch your step." He warned. "You must not slip and fall."

The end of the stairs came to another long corridor. Ramsay's voice filled the silent void. "You look exquisite, sweetling. That dress really brings out the color of your eyes. The flowers are really an excellent touch."

"You taunt me, m'lord." Myranda muttered. "These are blooms of belladonna."

"Ah, you caught me." Ramsay smiled, the flame glowing on the sharp points of his teeth. He brushed the back of his hand over the bare curve of her breast. "Deadly and beautiful. Just like you."

Myranda flinched, finding it necessary to change the subject. "The surprise, my lord?"

"Ever the impatient one, my dear." Ramsay beamed. "Right behind this door." He spun, pulling a key from his pocket and unlocked the door behind him.

Everything was dark. He held the door open, aiding the maiden over the threshold before entering the room. He used the dim light of the torch to light a fire in the hearth near the wall, casting a pale orange glow throughout the dark room, cutting the chill in the air.

Myranda had been paying keen attention to her Lord Ramsay and his actions. Then he directed the girl's attention elsewhere. In the center of the room, hung on a cross by his appendages, was the man from the hallway a few nights before. He was barely recognizable, gaunt and pale. His body was on full display, naked in the middle of the cold, dank, dungeon. His head hung forward, forced into the position by a wooden block, acting as a crude pillow. She noticed his fingers were all skinned and bleeding, his left foot completely mangled. Bones protruded from each appendage.

Myranda should have been appalled, but she was enthralled. The artistry of Ramsay's work left her awestricken. The thought behind it had her loins melting and heart seizing in her chest.

"The morning after I granted you fealty, this lout boasted about bedding the newest whore." Ramsay explained. "His brawn outweighs his brains, I am afraid."

The oaf of a man lifted his head an inch or so. His voice was strained and hoarse. "Kill me."

Ignoring him with a laugh, Ramsay continued speaking. "I am going to do something I do not usually do, Myranda. If you will remember, I do not share fairly with my playthings."

Myranda thought on their childhood, how Ramsay threw fits when his things were disturbed. He was a selfish little brat. "I remember, my lord."

Ramsay finally redirected his attention to the screaming man dangling from the stakes. "The lady will decide your fate, since you took it upon yourself to decide hers." Ramsay picked up a sharp, thin blade from a table covered in various implements of torture. The tip was rounded and blunt, but Myranda noted how the edge of the blade gleamed in the firelight. It was deadly sharp. "She was not yours to touch. If only Damon had gotten to you sooner." Ramsay toyed with the blade, watching his prisoners every move. "On the other hand, you should probably watch where you put your soddy cock in the first place."

"I am sorry!" The man rasped between sobs. "I am your faithful servant my lord, please! It was a mistake!"

"A mistake!" Ramsay grinned. "Do you hear that, my pet? He says his cock just slipped from his trousers and into your cunny!"

"She was wandering the halls in her night gowns, sir. I did not know that she was not free range."

"Myranda, is that true?" Ramsay touched the tip of his forefinger to the sharp blade, letting it prick his finger. He did not jump or cry out. He seemed to thrive on the rush of pain.

Myranda thought it obvious that she should be honest, to keep up this charade of implied jealousy they had brewing between them. "Yes, m'lord. I slipped from bed, reeling over the conversation we had had earlier in the night. I was coming to beg, my lord Ramsay, just as you wished, but when I arrived at your chambers, I found you…preoccupied."

He smiled knowingly and clucked his tongue at her. "Oh, sweet girl…" He circled her, brushing against her back. He moved her hair over to one shoulder, the sharp blade of his flaying knife cold on the skin of her breasts as he breathed into her ear. "Was this an act of jealous rage, my dear? Or did my man really steal your virtue in the night?" He did not allow the blade to cut her, only savored the way her breath caught in her throat and her skin ran cold.

She could not reply. She feared this would be a waste of her last breath. She had not been faithful to her lord and keeper, though she had been honest, she was guilty of infidelity in the eyes of her vassal's bastard. Ramsay did not share his toys and she was as much at fault as her rapist.

Shocking her, Ramsay's lips parted, offering her a way out. "Come now, sweetling. Decide his fate." Ramsay handed her the sharp knife. "Quick and painless? Or suffering till his last breath?"

Myranda contemplated her options. This was another human being. She had not witnessed torture first hand, but she was no stranger to darkness and death. Her father was a hunter. She had seen game killed and cleaned before, eating it afterward. Feeding the dogs scraps of fresh meat did not upset her, either. A person was different. They had feelings and voices with which they could convey their anguish and pain. It did not matter that this man had violated her without permission, whether she said no or not. She had a matter of moments to make a decision. Ramsay was asking her to play god.

Then she thought of what her father had said to her, how Roose wanted her to proceed. They wanted her to do as Ramsay wished, to be one step ahead of him, always. Her life could not be over just yet. The slowest torture would make Ramsay happiest. Control, that is what she chose.

"Flay him, my lord." She handed Ramsay back the knife. "I want to watch you work your magic."

Ramsay's grey eyes sparkled like darkened storm clouds as his face broke into a Cheshire grin. "Excellent!" He took the knife from Myranda's hands and turned to his unfinished canvas. "The lady has decided!"

The half-corpse in the center of the room groaned in pain, his head lolling to one side as he awaited his fate.

"I believe that what we have here is a lovely learning opportunity, playthings." Ramsay looked between Myranda and the man on the cross. "You will both get to see firsthand what torture does to a man… what comes over me when I am betrayed by those I mistakenly trust."

Myranda felt the heat from his stare wash over her flesh, making it crawl, aching to tear from her skin. It felt as though he was flaying her, or so she imagined. He was mentally torturing her from two yards away and she was powerless to stop it.

He broke the trance only to work on his masterpiece. He untied the man's left arm. He did not fight, too weak from hunger and pain. Ramsay had made sure of that. Gently, he peeled the flesh form his forefinger up and slipped the blade under the flesh to the edge of the cut. He held the skin taut as the knife did the work, gliding through the subcutaneous layer cleanly, slicing away the dermis with little qualms.

The man screamed and cried, cursing blindly as his skin ripped from his hand. Myranda barely noticed. She was enthralled, watching the pure joy spread across Ramsay's face as he sliced the flesh cleanly away from his victim's hand, working his way up to his arm. He was keeping the flesh almost fully intact, cutting a thin, clean line down the underside of the man's arm forearm, all the way up to his armpit. Working carefully, he pried all the flesh away in one clean sheet. He sliced the sheet away from the body right at the armpit and placed it on a table by the cross.

She had been so mesmerized, she did not notice that the captive had passed out. "Ah, well that's no fun now, is it?" Ramsay practically pouted. He walked over to the table of implements and placed his knife down, trading it out for a small glass jar which he opened and waved under the man's nose. In a few moments, he startled back to consciousness and screamed wildly as if awoken from a nightmare, jostling his neck. Eyes wild, they shot in every direction rapidly, trying to grasp his bearings. A steady stream of drool poured from the corner of his mouth. "Much better." Ramsay's sharp teeth gleamed in the firelight as he basked in the glow of power. He turned to Myranda. "I believe he needs a break, sweetling."

Myranda chose her words carefully, thinking about what Ramsay's next step may be. "Are you sure, m'lord? I am not convinced he has suffered enough for his crimes."

The man on the cross groaned, sobbing pitifully as Ramsay's wide eyes glittered and he smirked maniacally at the girl who was quickly becoming his favorite toy. "Is that so, pet?" He glanced at his whimpering masterpiece. "Do you here that, man? The lady says you have yet to pay your debt to her. I have to say, an arm's length of flesh is more than enough to repay your debt to me, but I'm afraid my newest whore is unsatisfied with your tribute." Ramsay began to pace, more a vagrant act of showmanship than anything. For someone as eccentric as he, performance was key. He was a master thespian. "Decisions, decisions…" He muttered. "You see, on the one hand, I could probably get away with flaying your other arm before you passed out again. That would be a bit much for a first real session. Certainly doable, just not ideal for you. On the other hand, I could give you a reprieve, granting you just enough time to recover before I finish your canvas for the night. I would probably be able to finish off the upper torso by the night's end." He stopped his pacing and regarded his former loyal servant. "My dear, innocent Myranda is but a woman. She knows nothing of these things. What she excels at, you have already experienced for yourself. You stole that joy from me. I cannot let you live, but I also cannot allow you to die cleanly. I will finish this, but first, I will allow you one last look at the one thing you can never possess." Ramsay crossed the floor and was in front of Myranda. "Strip."

Myranda startled in shock. She stared at her lord, afraid to speak.

"You heard me, my dear. Take off the dress."

Her teeth sunk into the fleshiest part of her lower lip as she planned her next step. She had not planned far enough ahead of Ramsay. She was not nervous of being naked in front of a stranger. This particular stranger had already shared her most intimate parts. He was hanging, fully nude, in the center of this room and she could see every inch of him, only an arm's length away. He had brought her to the brink of passion before and let her down. He was not a real man, but a selfish coward, taking from her what he could not beguile from a woman on his own. Like all the others before him, he had failed to give her release and that was enough of a reason to not be intimidated by showing him her body.

She was nervous to be naked in front of Ramsay. She knew him and his preoccupations with control and perfection. She was afraid she would not live up to his expectations and would be cast aside as a disappointment. She would not be able to live with herself.

"Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock." Ramsay chided. "I grow impatient, sweetling."

Myranda swallowed her pride and fear. "I cannot undress myself, my lord. It took two sets of hands to get into this beautiful dress you commissioned. I will need help peeling it off."

Ramsay faked a curt bow, malice dancing in his irises. "But of course, my dear. Turn around."

Myranda spun around as prompted and moved her long, brown hair over her shoulder, baring her back to Lord Snow, allowing him access to the corset's lacing. His rough fingers danced over her bare skin, teasing her before making a move for the delicate laces of the fine dress. He pulled each lace out slowly until the gorgeous creation was loose enough for Myranda to have to hold up to her chest, pressing the belladonna petals into her pert breasts. She felt his breath on her neck. "Off." He commanded, his teeth baring on the flesh of her ear. The pain was intoxicating, strumming chords that led straight to her hot, soaking core. The noise she emitted was audible, embarrassingly so, and her knees weakened, her body swayed. Ramsay laughed against her back. It was not mockery. He was not teasing her. It was a knowing snicker. As though he was testing her triggers and succeeded on the first try.

Myranda found empowerment in Ramsay's affection. She took a deep breath and dropped the dress. Her hands instinctively covered her sex, but she stood up proudly. "Good girl." Ramsay purred. "Now, turn around, pet."

Slowly, her feet still in the dress, she turned to face him. His eyes locked with hers for a brief moment before raking over her bare skin. Ravishing, she repeated. Over and over.

He reached out a hand, brushing the back of his fingers along the top of her breasts. He brushed her long hair out of the way. His touch traced along the outside of her curves, grazing her nipple. He gave her chills, running his fingers over her sensitive skin, his gaze was hypnotic and appreciative. He conveyed with facial expressions and body language what he could not in words. He finished by grabbing her wrist to move her arms away from her womanhood. His fingers touched the jutting bone of her hip. The back of his hand brushed the soft, curly hair of her sex and she trembled.

Ramsay hummed appreciatively in the back of his throat, looking at his newest prize. Myranda could not be sure if he was pleased or not, but took it to be a good sign that he was staring at her hungrily, smiling like a ravenous wolf.

She dared to touch him, the lack of contact physically caused her pain. She ran her hand over his chest, up to his neck, rubbing her soft hands along the sensitive skin behind his ear. Her nails scratched his scalp and he made a feral noise.

She longed to kiss him, but feared rejection. It was a dizzying whirlwind of emotion playing out in her head. She thought of what a seductress might do and sought strength, closing her eyes, she leaned in.

Myranda had barely shut her eyes when Ramsay spun around behind her, nearly knocking her over. His lush leather pressed to her back and she opened her eyes, searching for him. The rejection stung, but only for a moment. He lifted her arms and wrapped them behind her to wrap around his neck before sending feather-light touches up and down her sides until she squirmed against him. He used those skilled hands to reposition her, spreading her thighs and making her ache in new, undiscovered ways, the anticipation growing and urging her body into response. "Stay just like this, sweetling." He purred in her ear. "He has to see everything." His teeth were sharp against Myranda's graceful neck and her whole body arched as she cried out. Ramsay shocked her by yelling, "You are not looking, fool!"

The man's head jammed in place by the wooden block, he could hardly look up to see them standing before him, but he tried his best. His head rolled to one side, he seemed to force his eyes open to see.

Ramsay wrapped his arm around Myranda's midsection, hoisting her perky breasts up while holding her in place. Thigh's still spread, he used his dominant hand to reach around her slim, angled hips and placed it over her dripping cunt. "This is mine." He growled. "Say it."

Myranda hesitated and he slapped her sensitive, wet flesh. Glorious pain, too sharp and brief surged through her body. "Say it."

"It is yours, my lord." She panted, only loud enough for Ramsay to hear. It came out as one breath, her whole body on edge.

"SAY IT!" He screamed, looking up at the nearly unconscious man tethered in front of them.

"She's yours!" The man screamed, his body weak and voice cracking.

"Good boy." Ramsay chuckled. "Now, it's very important that you stay conscious. We would not want to disappoint my lady, now would we?"

She wanted to ask what Ramsay had meant, but her voice was cut off when his finger penetrated her cleft and grazed her clitoris. Her knees buckled and her body swayed when she groaned. Ramsay held her steady. His fingers crept lower, slipping through her folds to sweep over her quivering channel.

His middle finger dipped into her cunt and his lips brushed the shell of his ear as he rasped, "So responsive…" She could only hum as he hooked his appendage and swirled it against her inner walls, making her groan. "Is that all for me, or did the flaying work you up?"

She flushed, finding it hard to speak. She was not accustomed to such talk during carnal relations. She was used to being used by men for their own pleasure, not being their sole focus. She had to concentrate hard on forming words as his thumb spread her slippery slickness up to her clit. She found it impossible to lie. "Both." She hissed.

Ramsay chuckled. He used his free hand to massage her breast and tweak a pebbled pink nipple. Her breasts bounced as she shuddered. Ramsay worked slow circles around her throbbing ache. "You are not watching, fool!" Ramsay yelled. His hand stilled and Miranda whined. The man's head was completely slumped over. If his eyes were even open, he was staring at the ground. "Quick, my sweet. You will have to get his attention or I will have to leave you to wake him."

Myranda worked her hips in frustration, seeking the friction she craved. She was so close to orgasm, she could feel it building, more powerfully than anything she could grant herself in a moment of tension. She wanted it so badly, she would do anything. "What is he called?" She gasped.

"He has been stripped of his name." Ramsay whispered in her ear. "I have taken to calling him fool, but only because I cannot think of anything worse."

"Fool!" Myranda yelled. "Look at me when I speak to you!"

The beast growled in frustration, being exhausted and malnourished. He was awake, but his consciousness was waning. He glanced at her with malice, his weak neck flopped limply seconds later.

"A wonderful start, my dear." Ramsay acknowledged. "I am afraid you will have to try harder than that."

"Fool!" She practically moaned the word as Ramsay lazily strummed her core. "Are you not jealous?" The weak man scoffed, coughing violently as he did. "Lord Ramsay is so talented, only using his hand… he fills me more completely than you ever did." Ramsay groaned, sinking his teeth into Myranda's neck, just behind her ear. She bucked her hips onto his hand and his thumb ground against her swollen clit. "I am going to climax." She gasped. "I have never climaxed with a man before." She said a decibel louder, making sure the tethered man in front of her could hear.

Ramsay chortled. "That is up to me, sweetling. Do I think you have earned such pleasure?"

"Ramsay…" She pleaded, her nails digging into his hair, cutting into his scalp.

"Maybe if you beg." He devised. "Maybe then I will let you come."

"Ramsay, please…"

"Swear your life to me. Tell me you will obey my every command. Tell me you will belong to me, my willing servant. My greatest creation."

She did not hesitate. "Yes, my lord." She gasped. "I give myself to you. Whatever you desire. Ramsay, please."

He pushed two fingers into her center, rubbing furiously against her inner wall as his thumb circled her clit in dizzying circles and figure eights, furiously fast, then painfully slow. Each movement was enforced with different levels of pressure. "Say it again, my love. Say the name of your lord and master. Make me feel your conviction."

She felt the orgasm build again, deep in her loins. Her toes curled as it unfurled from her stomach in a radiant heat throughout her body. She shook, her whole body going weak from pleasure. Only the arm at her waist, clawing her breast, kept her upright. "Ramsay!" His name left her lips on her last focused breath and she knew then that she was completely hopeless.


	7. Had Enough

_She labored to catch her breath, focusing solely on locking her knees to keep herself upright. Never before had she felt such pleasure, such pure and unadulterated bliss. Her body was no longer her own. She was liquid fire, molten and pliable. "Ramsay." She panted, wanting to face him. She tried to turn around, wanting nothing but his mouth on hers, his skin against her own. She wanted to feel him, to come undone again around that large cock she had been fantasizing about over and over again for the past few nights. She felt as though that inextinguishable urge she had always suffered from was quelled and she only wanted to add kindling to the pyre._

_She tried to will her legs to move, but Ramsay held her still against him._

_"You meant what you said, my sweet?" He asked, sounding amused._

_"Every word." She panted. "I want more, my lord."_

_"And so you shall have it, my dear." He chuckled. "On your knees."_

_She dropped to her knees without hesitation, but Ramsay placed his hands on her shoulders, keeping her immobile. She was confused, but did not question Ramsay. He had promised her more. She did not believe he would go back on that promise, not after she had proved her devotion and loyalty._

_"You want more, sweet?"_

_"Yes, my lord."_

_"So do I." He agreed. "Our guest's attention wanes." Myranda glanced up. The tethered and tortured man was exhausted. His head drooped again, his eyes clamped shut as he waited for blissful death. "Get his attention for me."_

_"What do you mean?" Myranda knelt naked in between the two men, hands on her thighs, doe eyes wide and thighs slick and damp. She imagined how positively sinful she must look, flushed skin in the pale glow of the fire in the damp, stone dungeon._

_Ramsay smirked, eyes wide and glimmering. "I want you to suck his cock."_

_"My lord…"_

_"No questions. If you will recall what you said to me but a few moments ago… You pledged your entire life to me. Your body is mine. I want that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around that soddy cock. Wake up my prisoner so that I may further enjoy myself tonight."_

_She remembered all the things she had promised Ramsay. Her brain was muddled with endorphins and hormones, but she recalled promising all that and more. This was a game, a challenge. She had to be ready for anything._

_She mulled over her experiences with men. It was just a cock, after all. The secret to holding power over a man. She told herself it would last but a few moments. She crawled forward on her knees and sat in front of the cross. The man's cock lay limply in her face. From her vantage point, she could see every weak rise and fall of the man's chest as he suffered each pained breath._

_Myranda gripped his limp length at the base and knelt forward, kissing his velvety head with her wicked mouth. She did exactly as she was told._

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

"Rise and shine, miss!" Maggie ripped the thick curtains open after placing a heavy tray on the table. The sunlight was offensive, blinding Myranda's sensitive, tired eyes. "It's nearly midday. I let you over sleep, I admit. 'Twas a long night for all of us. Though I could not attend myself, I heard the party was really something."

Myranda groaned, her whole body sore and weary from sleeping too long and over exertion. Her eyes stung and her mouth was dry. She sat up and stretched, immediately tugging her sheets up to cover her bare chest. She had slept unashamedly naked, hoping foolishly that Ramsay would come to her chambers after he had finished in the dungeons. He had sent her off to bed rather prematurely. Her body still ached for him as she tried to lull herself to sleep.

She shivered, that familiar ache in her groin rearing its ugly head again. Myranda had only felt pleasure at Ramsay's hand, and she was still hooked. He held a fierce power over her, forcing her to do things she never wanted to do. Horrible, wicked things that made her more vile and impure. He had always had that power over her.

Maggie pretended not to notice that Myranda was naked under her sheets and lush comforter. The woman walked over to the edge of the bed and picked up Myranda's sullied party dress. "Such a fine garment… really miss, you should have summoned me to help you disrobe, my lady."

"It's really alright." Myranda sighed, trying her best to get the matronly woman out of her chambers.

The large maid brushed the dress off and folded it neatly over her arms. She carried it to the dressing table and hung it primly on a hanger, placing it in the armoire. She then pulled the dressing robe from the chaise lounge and carried it over to the bed, handing it to her lady. "Thank you." Myranda blushed.

"Of course, dear." Maggie nodded. "Will you require anything else?"

Myranda mulled the request over. "Would you happen to know where I might find Lord Ramsay?"

Maggie looked to the damp stone floor, shaking her head. "It would not be wise to go searching for Lord Ramsay. He does not like to be hovered over."

Myranda had so many questions about what transpired between them, and her assailant, a few hours ago. She could not bear the thought of living out the rest of the day, maybe even a few days, not knowing. "If it displeases Lord Ramsay, I will happily suffer the consequences. Please."

Maggie clasped her hands and clamped her lips, seeming to think over her decision to blab on her lord and master. "Very well." She finally decided. "Master Ramsay has lunch in his chambers, then often retires to the study for long hours before supper."

The woman's willingness with the information rendered Myranda silent. Even worse, was the news itself. She nodded, fiddling with the hem of her covers, waiting for the woman to leave before she dare move. "Thank you, Maggie."

"Yes, miss." The woman curtsied, then took her leave.

Myranda remembered exactly where she could find the study. It was once her favorite rooms in the old manor. She spent many days of her childhood there, hiding from her father. Roose's legitimate son, Domeric, had been but a few months older than Myranda. He was a sickly child. His only escape from the hell that was the Dreadfort was found in the many books provided to him by his father in the study. Domeric had a fine tutor who taught him to read. If Myranda hung around long enough, she would catch parts of their lessons. When they had finished for the day, Domeric would fill in the rest. He enjoyed reading stories aloud and Myranda loved to listen. They were close companions. That was, until Ramsay showed up crying on the drawbridge.

She did not knock when she entered the large room. Upon entering, seeing the hundreds of leather bound novels sheathed in a thick layer of cobwebs and dust, she felt sorrow. She mourned the loss of her friend and the death of the memories this place held for her. She knew Ramsay was not here for stories of magic and romance. If he came to brush up on his literature, he was most likely reading something with a little more substance. She quietly climbed the stairs to the loft, finding her lord perched in a lush chair, flipping through a thick book. She could not see the cover, but she could see that Ramsay was engrossed in the pages.

"Has anyone ever told you that it is impolite to stare?" Ramsay said, his voice monotonous and bored. He did not even need to look up to sense her presence.

"Pardon me, m'lord." Myranda muttered. "I did not mean to startle you."

"You did not startle me." He scoffed, shutting the book before looking at her. "I heard you come in."

He had to be lying, but she said nothing. "Well then, you must excuse my intrusion."

"On the contrary, sweetling. I was expecting you."

She suspected he was lying again. She stayed silent still.

"Did you have a wonderful time at the party?"

Another game. Myranda was getting good at these. "I had a wonderful time, my lord." She smirked. "But you know that is not why I am here."

"Please, my dear. Enlighten me, then. Why have you deliberately disobeyed my orders to grace me with your presence?"

She glared at him in the most subtle way she could manage. "I needed to speak with you about last night."

"But we just did." He chuckled. He picked up his book again, seeming bemused. She did not see the cover of the book. He flipped a few pages, silently reading over the words on the page. Then, out of nowhere, Ramsay cleared his throat. "You know, it all would have gone a lot more smoothly if I had had a few more days to starve Luton. That was his name, you know? Luton. A sworn man at arms to the Bolton's. One of my most loyal men. If only he could have learned to keep his loathsome cock to himself." He shut the book again. "I had meant to wait a few more days to give him to you. It becomes much easier to pull them apart when they are dehydrated and starved. They would bleed a lot less. He would not have died so suddenly…I hope you can understand. I was just so excited to show him to you. A sort of 'welcome home' gift, I should say." He looked at her, expectantly.

"Thank you, m'lord. It really was too kind." She glanced down at her feet. "I am terribly sorry for your loss."

"Do not grieve my boys." Ramsay rolled his eyes. "They know what they are giving up when they swear an oath to me. They are disposable. Any man in that courtyard would give their right little finger to take their place." He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Do you know how serious we Bolton's take our oaths?"

"I am beginning to understand." Myranda sighed. "May I ask you something, my lord?"

"Proceed." Ramsay locked his fingers and pressed his clasped hands on his chest.

"If your oaths are so sacred to you… why did you make me do it?"

"Do what?" He feigned innocence, but his eyes gleamed with ill-intent.

"You know what you made me do last night."

"Yes, of course. Do you think me daft? I want you to say it."

Myranda bit the inner corner of her lip, trying to hold her tongue. She had to plan carefully how she would respond. "Why would you make me suck his cock?"

"Whose?" Ramsay feigned puzzlement.

"Luton's!" Myranda was losing patience.

"Ah! Excellent question! Tell me, sweetling, how much of last night do you remember?"

"All of it, m'lord."

"Ah, so you do recall what you had said to me moments before I forced you to your knees to give a dying man his last good fuck, then?"

"Swear your life to me. Tell me you will obey my every command. Tell me you will belong to me, my willing servant. My greatest creation."

"Yes, my lord. I give myself to you. Whatever you desire. Ramsay, please."

She blushed, ashamedly looking away from Ramsay's sharp, hunter's gaze. "Yes, m'lord."

"Then that is all you need know, my dear." Ramsay slipped from his chair, his feet seemed to glide until he stood in front of Myranda. His hand brushed her cheek and forced her gaze upwards until they stood eye to eye.

There was no real reason for what had happened. Ramsay only found it necessary to test her devotion. He asked her to do what pleased him solely to prove that he could. Disappointment swallowed her from failure to find clarity. She decided to seek the only distraction she could think to. "I meant what I told you, my lord. Every word. I have ached for you all night. I want you to fuck me."

Ramsay chuckled, his thumb rubbing the apple of her cheek. He paid special attention to each delicate beauty mark, looking deep into her eyes. "I have something very important to do tonight, my dear. It requires my full attention, but it should not keep me long. When the moon is full in the sky, when you can see its reflection in the Weeping Water, then you may come to my chambers. If you still ache by then, well, I will expect you to beg for my cock, Myranda. If you plead sincerely enough, I will give you what you desire and more."

Having to wait had not been on Myranda's mind. She thought maybe he would take her here, on this table, surrounding by the towers of book shelves. Instead, she would have to wait all afternoon, well into the night. She sighed, closing her eyes. She memorized Ramsay's touch. "I will please you, m'lord." She hummed. "You will succumb to my pleas and give me exactly what I want."

Ramsay scoffed. "Do your worst, my dear."


	8. Blow Me Away

Myranda was sure that the moon was high enough by now. She could see the perfect white sphere's reflection clearly in the still waters verging into the moat surrounding the fort. She had ventured out of her room to the window on the west side of the hall just to see the water. She gave herself a slow, deliberate count to one thousand before she allowed herself to head towards the stairs.

"Look, Sara. Someone's finally left her room." Myranda stopped at two-hundred and fifty-six to face the pair of blondes, walking the hall in their undergarments. The giggling golden-haired girl who spoke first cocked her eyebrow at her and snickered. "We were beginning to think you had scales and a tail." She was the one who had been grinding on Damon's lap so freely the night before.

Myranda faintly remembered seeing the other girl, Sara, sitting near her at the table the night before. She had not said one word to these girl's and already they were catty little wenches. "You must have known better. You both would have seen me last night." Myranda snapped back.

"Ah, yes. Passing from Locke to Lord Bolton. Tell me, which man were you able to welcome home properly?"

Myranda growled. "If you must know, neither."

"Perhaps the rumors were false. Perhaps she is as sloppy a whore as the kennel's she was made to muck."

"Don't be so cruel, Violet. Perhaps she was so graceful on her feet, no man would like to see her off of them?"

"And mayhap you are being too kind to the newest whore." Both blondes cackled. "We cannot afford to give her such credit."

Myranda tapped her foot impatiently. "And perhaps they knew I was to be saved for someone else."

Their eyes grew wide, but the amusement remained plastered to their faces. "You do not mean Ramsay." The loud-mouthed one snickered.

"And if I did?"

"The poor, innocent kennel master's mistake of a daughter. You could not become anything on your own and had to come crawling back to daddy on your stomach with your tail between your knees like the worthless bitch you are. After what you have done in the Reach, you would be lucky to have anyone interested at all. It would have been more merciful for him to have you slain. Maybe then you would not be suffering so."

Myranda did not know what else to say, but she knew she could not stand there and take this much longer. She slipped past the catty girls towards the stairwell.

"Oh, Myranda!" The bitch called. "Ramsay will not be alone in his chambers, if that is where you are heading. Kyra has been there all night! In fact, no one has seen her for days."

Myranda ran away from their taunts and cruel words. She took the stairs two at a time and rounded the corner to Ramsay's rooms. She heard two voices on the other side of his door. She strained her ears, listening for the piercing cry of a woman. She waited there for a few agonizing minutes. None came. She heard only male voices. She could not make out the words, but she was sure they were celebrating something. She pressed her back into the wall and waited. She felt as though she was holding her breath until the door opened and Damon slipped out, nearly running into her.

"Miss." Damon nodding, his lips curling cruelly, as if he knew some secret. It was as if he was reading her mind, like he knew why she was here.

"Ah, Myranda!" Ramsay called. He remained seated in a throne-like chair, peering at her from around the doorway. "I have been expecting you. Come in, my sweet." She stepped over the threshold and paused, waiting for Damon to leave, embarrassment flushing her cheeks. "Damon." Ramsay chided. "Have the dogs starved. We will be leaving at dawn. Do not forget."

"Yes, m'lord. I will remind the girl's father." He glanced at Myranda, his light eyes twinkling. "Should I prepare all of the horses, or will you ride alone?"

"Make sure Blood is saddled. I will be going on my own this time." Ramsay did not take his eyes off of Myranda, causing her to wobble insecurely on her feet. "That is all Damon."

"Yes, of course my lord. Miss. I bid you both a good night." His voice seethed sarcasm. He turned to the hall and shut the door behind him.

Myranda let silence swallow her for a moment, afraid to look up and face her demons. She had scanned the room thoroughly and found no females present. Ramsay cleared his throat, expecting her attention. She forced her gaze upward. "Are you preparing for another hunt, my lord?"

"Yes, sweetling. I ride at dawn." He beckoned her closer. She dared herself to take that step. "Tell me, my dear, were you eavesdropping there at the door? Remember, there is a great price for lying to me."

She shuddered, thinking again of the dungeon. "Not on purpose, my lord."

His face contorted. "What do you mean, Myranda?"

She gulped in fear and breathed out trepidation. "I was told you would not be alone if I came to your chambers, my lord. I had feared you were with a woman."

Ramsay smirked. "Pray tell, sweet girl, who told you this?"

Myranda's mouth was treacherously dry. She feared she was digging herself a trench, each word sending herself deeper in the foul earth. She could not stop the words from bubbling up. "I did not catch her name. She warned me I would find you in bed with a girl called Kira."

"Kira?" Ramsay laughed. "One of the whores…" Ramsay's held his hands in a scaffold in his lap. "Let me set your mind at ease. They are all jealous, seeking attention. They want to frighten you, Myranda. They want to scare you back to your father's door and do away with you. They are afraid of what you might do, what you may become."

Jealousy. Fear. They were acting like dogs. Frightened animals often tried to evoke fear in retaliation to ward off danger. That she could understand.

Myranda was afraid and jealous as well. She was engrossed in a fight she could not win. She was a novice here. The Dreadfort was her rightful home, but these halls were foreign. She realized now that things here were the same as Old Town. Everyone was sinister and cut throat, fighting to climb the ladder to reach the unattainable prize. In the Reach, they were scrounging for riches, for a title. Here, they sought after affection. She had traded one version of hell for another.

"There are others." She uttered the words.

"There will always be others, sweetling. Always more bitches, scrounging for a piece of meat." Ramsay pulled her to him, having her sit demurely in his lap. He brushed her hair back with a careful hand, stroking her ear. "Are you willing to fight, sweet girl? Are you able to rip out your opponent's throat? Will you be able to stomach your actions? Or will you tuck your tail and run?"

Myranda's mind raced. She remembered the words of her father, of Lord Bolton. She would have nowhere to turn if she could not pull this off, if she could not seduce Ramsay into believing she was valuable and irreplaceable. If she could not cement herself by his side, she would be cast away. She would be thrown on her ass or killed by his hand. There was no turning back. Her whole life depended upon selling herself to her vassal's only son. If given this choice, she would fight for her life.

"I will not back down." Myranda whispered, her eyes searching for approval in Ramsay's grey orbs. "I will fight to the death."

"Is that so?" Ramsay scoffed, visibly bemused.

She fought every muscle in her body, willing them not to give her away as she ached to squirm in his gale storm gaze. "I want to fight."

Ramsay chortled. "I can read you, you know. You show your emotions like a frightened animal. Your whole body is stiff, your breathing is heavy, your eyes are wide." His hand glided down from her ear to the nape of her neck and he wrenched her down to his level, forcing her to look him in the eye. "You make this too easy, pet." He began to laugh.

Ramsay chuckled, almost excessively. His boisterous joviality came to a screeching halt when Myranda began to stroke his thigh. Her fingers were suggestive, but tame. She looked down at his crotch, tentatively nudging up and down his taut muscles through his breeches, purposefully avoiding Ramsay' steadily rising length. She batted her lashes, looking up at Ramsay to watch his reaction to her teasing. His nostrils flared as he watched her every move. His breathing hitched every time her hand dare to venture close to his manhood.

Ramsay was right. She was being too predictable. Predictable was boring. Myranda could not be boring.

She was letting her mind get the better of her. Fear and pain could not rule her life. She had to get control over her emotions if she wanted to make this work. Right now she would take the first step. Right now she would gain the upper hand.

Her fingers entwined with Ramsay's before she spoke. "Hands are a wondrous thing, would you agree, my lord? They create… They can destroy…" She watched his eyes, the storm brewing within their depths. His other hand knotted in her hair, searching for restraint. For once, Ramsay was at a loss for words. All the blood in his body drained to his cock and that made him weak.

"I will always remember what you did for me, what these hands did for me, my lord. Not only did they disarm and destroy my assailant." The words became lodged in her throat. She had to look away from Ramsay to finish. "They also brought me to my knees."

He must have summoned all of his self-control to grab her wrist, but he did, stilling her motions. "You're playing with fire, girl."

Maybe she was. Maybe she was ready to burn.

Myranda allowed Ramsay to hold her as she spoke. "If there is fire, it is only because you struck the flint."

"You say there is fire and that I am at fault, yet it is you continuing to come to me, you ensnaring yourself in my traps."

Myranda used her bound wrist to lift Ramsay's hand to her mouth. "Perhaps that is because I cannot deny the attraction between us, my lord. Perhaps we are but magnets."

"Magnets?" Ramsay chortled. "Perhaps, I am a ravenous wolf. Then you can be a docile fawn."

Myranda raised her brows at her lord. "I am not a fawn, my lord. If you are a wolf, then I am a fox." Before he could reply, she sucked his index finger into her mouth and swallowed his thoughts. Her teeth sank into his flesh and Ramsay bucked his hips. "You first told me that when I came, if you were to bed me that I would have to beg." With his guard down, she slipped away from his grasp to stand before him. She looked down Ramsay's breeches, seeing his cock rock hard and straining. She smirked, feeling empowered and emboldened by the power she held over men. With deft fingers, she untied the laces on her low-cut dress. When she reached her navel, the dress loosened enough to slide off of her shoulder and fall around her feet. Her hair hung in bunches, covering her breasts but leaving the rest of her exposed. "That is what I intend to do."

Ramsay froze but a moment, taking her in. She thought she had succeeded in catching him off guard. She was wrong. "I believe you will find it easier to beg if you were on your knees, pet. Go on, little fox. Get on your knees."

She could not back down now. She kept her eyes trained on his as she sank to her knees before him, placing her hands demurely on her thighs. Her hair parted and the sharp points of her nipples pierced the deep, ashen strands. Arousal had her chest heaving as she awaited Ramsay's next instruction.

"Well?" His amusement was waning. She could tell from his tone. "Have you something to say? You cannot be expecting to beg me with those bedroom eyes, pet."

She looked ashamedly down at her knees. "No, my lord." Myranda felt immense pressure weighing upon her in the looming silence. She had no idea how to talk to someone carnally. She was always expecting to be silent, a vessel for someone else's amusement. She had no idea what Ramsay would like to hear, but the prickling burn in her stomach told her exactly what she wanted.

"Your cock." She whispered, barely audible in the large room over the crackle of the fire.

"I'm sorry?" Ramsay called, pricking his ear in her direction. "A little louder, please."

"Ramsay, m'lord… please. I need your cock."

Ramsay chuckled. "And what will you do with it, silly girl? So sweet and innocent. But a few nights ago was the first time you ever set eyes on one. Now you would like it for your very own?"

She grew impatient. He was teasing her, making a mockery of her. She was not a joke. This was very real. "Please, my lord. Fuck me with your cock. Fuck me like an animal."

Ramsay chortled, his eyes growing wide and his brow furrowed. "You have no idea what you are asking, silly girl."

"You belittle me as if you know me." Myranda bit the words off before she could think. Her demeanor softened instantly as she continued. "Much has changed in my absence, my lord. A woman's heart holds many secrets."

"Do you think that interests me, Myranda?"

"I am not su-"

"Is this the Septon's idea of foreplay? Is this how you are used to seducing men? Speaking in riddles about secrets? Sputtering nonsense from the top of your foolish head?"

"I have never…" Her whisper died off.

"I cannot hear you, Myranda. Speak up, girl, or I will put your mouth to better use."

She was losing control again. Her head spun and she said the first thing that came to mind. "I should like that."

Ramsay's interest peaked again. He regarded her carefully, steepling his hands on his lap. "Is that so, sweetling? Have you been thinking of my cock? What you would do with it?"

"What you made me do to Luton." Myranda whispered, her voice inflected when she looked back at him, her eyes locking with his. "You made me suck his cock."

"Is that what you would do with me, sweet girl?"

She shuddered. "If you would let me, my lord."

He shifted in his seat, but did not move. "Is that something animals do in the wild, Myranda?"

"No…"

Ramsay rolled his eyes. "Crawl to the bed for me." Myranda stared back at him, her face puzzled and contorted. "Go on, girl. Be a good little vixen and crawl to my bed for me."

Do as you are told.

She tried to stomach the urge to hesitate and pushed herself up on her hands and knees. The cold grit of the slate floor bit into her palms and knees as her weight bared down on all four appendages. It burned to turn around and the few yards it took for her to reach the bed were excruciating, not only because of the pain in her limbs, but from the level of humiliation she was being subjected to. She focused on making the act alluring, but she struggled. The slow, erotic movements were harrowing. She reached the four-poster bed and turned slightly, watching Ramsay.

The lord's bastard stood slowly, his hard cock making a tent of his breeches as he did so. The look on his face was a mixture of rage and arousal. He was enjoying the show. Myranda felt a twinge in her loins: he was enjoying seeing her in pain.

The idea gave her a small boost in confidence and she gave him a coy smile, stretching her lean frame with her hands on the edge of the mattress, giving him a good view of her backside as she pulled herself up onto the bed. She remained bent over on all fours and arched her back, pushing her ass out. She wiggled a bit, clamping her thighs closed under the heat of his stare. She did her best to keep her breathing under control as Ramsay descended upon her. She watched with half-hooded eyes cast over her shoulder as he ripped his leather blouse over his head. He was every bit a predator, watching her, looking for a sign of weakness. She could feel the heat of his stare. She was a massive mix of emotions: embarrassed and humiliated, still curious and aroused.

"Wolves and foxes may be mortal enemies, but that is only because they share so many similarities." Ramsay seemed to be speaking aloud to himself. He spoke nonchalantly, sounding borderline disinterested, pacing back and forth behind her as he watched her shiver in the dim fire light of the cold room. "For example: both species mate in the winter. They have similar courting rituals, where the mates circle each other for hours, nuzzling and nipping each other until the female emits hormones that send the male into a frenzy. When he can no longer control his natural urges, he mounts her. When they fuck, they lock together for up to an hour until both creatures are sated."

Sharp pain radiated through Myranda's backside as he spanked her, one sharp slap to her rump. Her body lurched forward and she yelped. "Are you paying attention?"

"Yes, m'lord" She bit the words out.

"Then spread your legs for me." He warned her with a sharp tongue.

She took a deep breath and her thighs parted. Her glistening cunt spread open ever so slightly. Behind her, Ramsay inhaled sharply, his nostrils flared as he scented her out. "I can smell you, Myranda. Your body is calling to me."

Myranda shuddered, the words being almost too much, but not quite enough for her. She knelt her head forward on the bed, her long hair curtaining her face. She relished the false sense of solitude and rolled her hips. She wanted more than anything for him to stop this redundant torture. She needed his manhood to fill her. She wanted to be fucked. "Answer it, m'lord." She hummed in delirium. "Answer the call."

He placed his hands on her hips. They were broad and firm, covering her entire lower back. He swirled his thumbs, the contact lulled her into a false sense of relaxation while still heightening her senses. "Is that really what you want, sweet girl? Is that something you can handle, Myranda?"

Sex had always been about duty for Myranda. She had always been used by men in all facets of her life. She should not expect this to be any different, yet she foolishly did. More than anything, she wanted to feel the overwhelming power of Ramsay taking her. She was not sure if she could handle what Ramsay was willing to give her, but she wanted to find out. She flipped her hair over her back and watched Ramsay over her shoulder. He was holding her steady, watching her body language as he continued to run his thumbs over her heated flesh. She breathed the words, "Fuck me, Ramsay."

His eyes darkened in that moment, his pupils dilating, and his grip on her lower back intensified. "If I take you now, sweetling, I will not be able to stop."

In that moment, she could not imagine this fire inside of her ever dying. She would combust before the fire lamented. The embers would always be glowing in its wake.

She watched through half-hooded lids as Ramsay stroked his hands down her ass. They left her skin, settling at the waist of his breeches. He hooked his thumbs under the coarse fabric and ripped them down his muscled thighs. That glorious cock of his sprung loose. He gripped its solid length at the base, stroking himself lazily as he watched Myranda squirm. She was hungry for it, backing up, trying desperately to reach him.

Ramsay groaned, catching Myranda's attention. She locked eyes with his and had but a moment's notice before he pistoned his hips, thrusting into her hot core, just his throbbing head penetrating her at first.

Myranda groaned as every inch of Ramsay's thick cock pushed its way firmly through her rippling muscular walls. Every ring stretched to fit him perfectly, a snug fit that she relished. She squealed as the rounded tip pushed against her cervix. Full. She felt delightfully full. With every beat of her pulse, she was reminded of his presence. His cock was sheathed inside of her, buried to the hilt. She had a moment to adjust before Ramsay groaned, pulling himself free until only his head was inside of her again. His fingers bruised her hips as he slammed back home. He kept this pace, easing himself out of her, almost gently, and slamming back into her cunt with full force until he was slapping against her. Myranda reveled in the friction, feeling numb everywhere but between her legs where she throbbed with unyielding pleasure.

"Such a good little whore." Ramsay babbled. "Fuck."

Myranda's mind played tricks on her, twisting the words from compliment to condemnation. For most of her life, since she developed breasts and grew hair between her legs, she had been nothing more than a human canister for men's pleasure. She had spent all of this time playing dead, asking for nothing when she craved so much more. She was forced to seek gratification on her own, by her own doing, in private. That was so mundane. So boring.

The night before, she had suffered her first real orgasm. One that she had not brought upon herself, one from someone else's hand. She had given herself over to him, pledged him her life, her very soul, for that salvation. Ramsay had delivered. If she could manage the same power over Ramsay, she would be successful. She would be allowed her wicked life. Tonight was not for giving, no. Tonight was for taking.

Myranda twisted her hips, flipping herself over onto her back and repositioned her legs, wrapping them around Ramsay's waist, digging her heels into his lower back, dragging him forward until he was deep inside of her, nearly knocking her breathless, drawing cries from her chest. His face spoke volumes, reading anger, frustration, then curious amusement as he smiled devilishly, even chuckling a bit.

She had granted herself full exposure and she used it to her advantage, using one delicate hand to twist her peaking nipple, the other traveled down the length of her taut body to settle between her legs. She circled her clit teasingly before she delved into her slick folds, rubbing herself furiously. A wave of pleasure rolled over her far too briefly.

Ramsay roared, the noise erupting deep in his chest and he swatted her hand away before she could come. He grabbed her wrists, ripping her hands from her clit and her nipple, withdrawing from her slightly as he bent over her body, forcing her hands over her head. His face hovered mere inches over her own.

She was so overwhelmed, so engulfed in her lord, she broke the distance between them, sealing her lips with his. Her lips burned, every nerve on edge. She ached for him, wanting every fiber of her being to be possessed and claimed by him. She could feel him pulling away, could feel the anger wash over her and she drew him closer, digging her teeth into his lower lip until she tasted blood. She felt as though her whole life, she had been starving, on the brink of death, and Ramsay was her sustenance, her only salvation. He howled, ripping himself from her as he slammed his cock into with a fierce jerk of his hips. His eyes locked on hers as he fucked her, his thumb pried her lower lips apart and he encouraged her with a few sharp slaps to her clit. She was on the edge again, a new sensation claiming her. Pain. The sharp sting to the heightened bundle of nerves was driving her crazy. She met his thrusts with a nudge of her hips and impaled herself on his broad, hard cock, meeting every slap of his hand.

It was as though, up to this point, Myranda had been starving, malnourished and ravenous. Ramsay was the sustenance she craved. He held her life in the balance. He could do with her what he will and she would allow him to do so because she could not imagine things any other way. This was it. The Bolton's were her lords and masters and Ramsay Snow was her life.

Myranda cried, grinding her hips upward onto Ramsay's hard length as he fucked into her, drawing cries from her body. She was shuddering, both of their bodies drenched in sweat in the chilled room. Myranda could feel herself falling apart, every hard thrust, every pump of her hips bringing her closer and closer until there was nothing but bliss. White, hot, mind-numbing bliss.

"God damn it!" Ramsay roared. All too suddenly, he had ripped himself from inside of her, leaving her hollow and empty. His body jerked and hot semen shot across her stomach, a single stream spattered on her nipple and dripped down her chest as she panted in reprieve.

Myranda had but a moment's breath to recover. She quickly realized Ramsay was laughing, a maniacal sound. She felt very self-conscious, almost instantly she folded in on herself, rolling away from Ramsay's sadistic form. "Oh, Myranda." Ramsay cooed. "I had not realized you had developed a backbone, sweetling. What a pleasant surprise."

She had no desire to fight back, no will to retort. She was exhausted, rapturously warm and fuzzy all over. Surrounded by Ramsay, covered in his essence, but void of his presence, Myranda began to doze.


	9. Dear Agony

It had been but a few hours before Ramsay was ripping the blanket off of Myranda. Ice cold air kissed Myranda's nakedness and she rolled over, contorting to cover herself. "Do not get shy on me now, sweetling. It is time to greet the day."

"Tis not even dawn!" Myranda protested, seeking solace in the cushy bedding.

Ramsay cleared his throat, striking fear in the young girl. She rolled over, peaking from beneath the pillows. He was fully dressed in leather and loose breeches. "I have barely just slept, my lord." She said, trying to sound pitiful and sincere. "I am still sore and exhausted from last night." She purred.

"Ah, that may be the case, but these plans were set in place long before I bedded you, Myranda, my sweet. I would hate to have to disappoint the hounds."

Myranda sat up straight, covering her chest. Her entire body was on high alert now despite her disorientation. "The hounds, m'lord?"

Ramsay chuckled. "Yes, dear girl. My bitches are starving." He smirked as she swallowed, the muscles in her elegant throat bobbed and contorted. He tossed a leather garment onto the bed. It very nearly fell into her lap, missing by a few inches. "Get dressed, my dear. Meet me in the kennels. I suspect you remember how to get there. Do not keep me waiting." He turned, sharp on his heels, and left the room.

The fire was dwindling in the hearth, the moon still shone brightly in the sky. Beams of its radiant light shimmered on the slate floor through the one slot-shaped window in the room.

Her legs shook as she stood. She had no idea what Ramsay's intentions with her were in the middle of the night. He was wearing his hunting clothes, almost the exact same ensemble she had seen him in the first time she laid eyes on him since returning home. That was right. When she had first come to his chambers, he and Damon had been discussing the hunt. She did not imagine that he would hunt with a woman, but there was a chance. There was also a chance she was the target. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Perhaps this was his plan all along, to confuse her and ignite her emotions and get inside of her head and her heart to make this chase more interesting.

Her mind spiraled, wondering where exactly she had gone wrong in the past few hours. Perhaps it was a mistake to provoke her lord. Perhaps, by opening her legs so easily, she had sealed her own fate.

Myranda held the modest gown out in front of her. It was made of the thinnest, softest leather she had ever felt. Her finger tips brushed the tanned flesh with the utmost care. It was light weight and durable material. Perfect for strenuous activity. It was ideal for running, running through the woods.

Myranda dressed as quickly as she could with her fumbling fingers. She did not want to find out what would happen if she kept Ramsay waiting. The dress was snug, fitting cleanly to her taut body, low cut down the front like all of the rest. The brown color blended plainly with her mussed, light brown hair. It was camouflaged.

Perfect for hunting.

Perfect for hiding.

She slipped from the room, down the winding staircase, straight for the kennels. She found Ramsay standing beside an ebony steed, stroking his neck in a manner most becoming and out of character. He held his long bow in one hand, his quiver strapped across his back, full of ammunition.

Her foot snapped a small branch and she froze. Ramsay's ear pricked and he stopped nuzzling the large equine to glance in her direction. "Ah, the fox is not so swift and silent."

Myranda blushed, remembering their livid conversation last night about the rival animals. She joined him before the horse, Blood. The name did not quite fit. The animal was no doubt fit and fierce, but seemed docile enough to be considered tame. He may have a self-indulgent tempter like his master, but somehow Myranda doubted that. "What is your bidding, my lord?"

"Listen." Ramsay held a finger to his pursed lips. The brunette vixen perked her ears, standing completely still. The hounds were baying, well off into the distance. She wondered why she had not heard it before.

Ramsay tugged on the horse's reigns and the man and his steed began to walk at a normal pace towards the edge of the fort's wall. He furrowed his brow and glanced back at her. She was to follow them. "We will walk Blood to the portcullis, the dogs are already well at work."

"What are we after?" Myranda whispered.

"All in due time, my dear." He retrieved a bow and quiver from the ground at Blood's feet and offered it to the girl. "I suspect you recall how to shoot, my lady?"

Myranda had accompanied her father on a few hunts. Being motherless, she had no other choice up until the age of twelve. "Yes, m'lord. The bow is like a second appendage."

"Good." Ramsay smirked. "I will expect you to be able to keep up, then."

"Keep up?" The mousy-haired girl gulped.

"Of course. After Blood leads us into the woods a good ways, we must split up if we are to catch our game."

Another game. Of course. A never ending spiral of trials and tribulations to edge her way into Ramsay's heart.

They reached the portcullis and the gate began to raise on its own accord. She realized someone was in the tower above, but the sudden creak of the metal amidst the silence startled her.

"How does one win this game?" Myranda said, using her last reserve of courage. "What is our target?"

Ramsay sported a Cheshire grin. "Kira, the blacksmith's daughter was released last night into the woods, just before our tryst, my dear. She's had twelve hours head start under the grace of the full moon. If she is not ready for the hunt by now, I suspect we will be back to the Fort by noon."

The black smith's daughter. A live, human target. The most dangerous game Myranda could imagine. She shuddered to think that she may have to take a human life, but the prospect of evening the playing field between the eligible female's at the Dreadfort excited her to no end. Kira, the girl who had been missing. The one who supposedly was in Ramsay's chambers last night before Myranda arrived. Jealously surged loud and true, coursing through her veins. She craved to be the last woman standing more than anything. That would be her game. She had no choice but to excel.

"Come, pet." Ramsay mounted the steed, swinging his legs up and over the mount like a seasoned pro. He offered Myranda his hand once he was situated and pulled her up with one arm, sitting her demurely in his lap. His hands rested on her sides as he reached around her to tighten the reigns. Myranda's head spun, but she calmed herself, telling herself that the battle was already half won.

Ramsay seldom hunted in groups. She imagined he rarely took a partner into the woods with him, especially if the other person was sporting a bruised and swollen cunt, one that had been fucked hard by his cock, between their legs. She settled well enough on the saddle, but the wide birth she afforded to fit on the mount reminded her of every painful thrust and drug the throbbing urge bubbling back to the surface.

The pair exited the walls of the fort and the rusting gate lowered behind them. A few yards from the wall, Ramsay kicked the side of the horse and clicked his tongue, sending the animal off into the woods at a dizzying pace.

Cold wind slapped Myranda's cheeks as they raced through the woods. The horse knew its job: follow the sounds of the dog's yelps and bays. He raced through the woods until Myranda's face was numb and her cunt felt raw and painful. Ramsay had only to tug the reigns once and the steed came to a halt in the center of a small clearing. The sounds of the dogs seemed to echo in all directions. It was disorienting to the senses.

With Ramsay's help, Myranda slid to her feet on the soft earth below, followed shortly by Ramsay. Ramsay assessed the area, hands on his hips. "I suppose this would be good a place as any to split up." He murmured. He nuzzled Blood's muzzle in silent thanks, then smacked the horse's left flank, sending the steed off running in the direction he had just journeyed, as if the way home was just engrained in him. "I will even allow you to choose which direction you will search."

"Such a generous advantage, my lord." Myranda hummed.

"Ah, you are so welcome my dear girl. I would choose carefully if I were you. Your fate rests in the balance." Ramsay's light eyes sparkled deceptively.

She gulped. "What do you mean, m'lord?"

"We split up to look for the whore in the woods. Whoever gets to her first gets to do the honors of putting that sniveling little cunt out of its misery."

Faking confidence, Myranda's teeth sparkled in the moon light as she smiled coyly. "Sounds simple enough."

"Ah, but there are always twists and turns in the woods, my dear. I would be weary. Tis easy to get lost out here." Ramsay teased.

He was right, of course. It was dark and each tree looked eerily similar to the one beside it. The moon light helped tremendously, but it did nothing to stall the echoing of the wind rustling in the trees or the howling of the hounds.

"So, my sweet, what will it be?"

She glanced in the sky. The full moon was still high. Its position west gave her a vague idea of the time. There would be a few more hours of darkness before the sun began to rise. She could choose west and have a few good hours of glistening moonlight in the woods. She could also take her chances and head east, struggling at first before gaining the upper hand.

Ramsay was skilled, practically living in the woods. He would easily find his way in the dark. He would manage on his own until dawn. He would choose east.

"East." She said, cooly.

Ramsay, wide eyed in surprise, scoffed. "East? Well then… east it is." He muttered. "You will head east and I will head west."

"Very well." Myranda nodded, hoisting her hunting gear high on her shoulder to adjust the weight more evenly. Her nerves were getting the best of her.

Ramsay adjusted his bow and quiver on his shoulder as well, gliding cooly past her in the direction of the shining moon. "Be careful out here, Myranda."

"Yes, m'lord." Myranda whispered, out of breath with anxiousness.

He crept quietly into the distance. Almost out of sight, he turned. "Oh, before I forgot – I would not let me find you first if I were you."

______________________________________________________________________________

Myranda was lost. Every tree and visible root, every branch and leaf looked the same in the dark. She was dizzy, looking each direction to attune her ears to the sound of the dogs but she could not detect a definitive course to continue wandering in.

She was tired and her whole body ached. She just wanted to give up and collapse. Perhaps the dire wolves would find her. Perhaps Ramsay would rescue her first. She shuddered at the thought. It was unclear which was worse; the wolves or her lord's bastard son. Something about the look he shot her before they separated hours ago made her skin crawl. The threat he uttered was eating away at her sanity.

_I would not let me find you first if I were you._

She imagined a number of cruel tricks. She may suffer the same fate as the whore they were after if she did not succeed in evading Ramsay. She may suffer worse if she found the cunt first and did away with her before Ramsay had his fun. She was not sure how to play these silly games anymore. Maybe it would be in her best interest to lay down and die.

She almost got her wish, her booted toes snagging under an upturned root. She fell face-first on her hands and knees, skinning herself awfully on the bark. The cuts were crude and misshapen, nothing like the work of a flaying knife.

She had wandered upon a clearing, the babbling brook sent childhood memories bubbling to the surface. Her hands were touching the purple blossoms before she had a chance to realize where she was. Belladonna. She was laying in a field full of the deadly nightshade.

_She heard the yelp of pain, then silence. Deafening silence._

_She ran as fast as her short legs would allow. She knew he loved to be deep in the woods, very deep in the woods, always alone._

_She knew she was close when she heard the rush of a stream. She rounded the base of a huge oak and there he was, hunched over in the center of a small clearing._

_"Ramsay." She hissed._

_He turned slowly, his eyes were dark storm clouds, pure malice and rage. He smiled at her. His lips curled and his eye teeth were sharp as knives. "Come here, girl."_

_She took a few cautious steps through the brush. She knew what had happened before she could see. She smelled death hanging in the air. "Ramsay, what have you done?"_

_He moved over for her to see. The missing puppy lay at his feet. His neck angled awkwardly, his stomach slit from groin to sternum._

_A single tear spilled over the rim of her eye._

_"Do not act so foolish, girl. The sniveling shit was the runt of the litter. He was never going to make it. I did him a favor."_

_She tried not to cry. She really did. She had been nursing the sickly pup since birth. She did not need Ramsay to see her weaker than he already believed her to be._

_"Actually, I knew you would follow me, girl."_

_"My name is Myranda." She growled._

_"I know." He shrugged. "I just do not care."_

_"I hope my father skins you alive."_

_Ramsay chuckled. "My father will not let him."_

_Myranda scoffed. "Your father pities you. He would be lucky to be rid of you, Ramsay. Domeric is his true love."_

_Ramsay glared at the young girl, but did not argue. "That is actually the reason I lured you here, girl."_

_"I do not understand..."_

_"Because I have yet to explain myself." He deadpanned. "You are standing in the midst of the cure for my dear brother's ailments." Ramsay explained._

_"What are you saying?" Myranda was still confused._

_"My precious brother, Domeric, told me of a magic bloom, one with which we could make a healing tonic from steeping the roots. I have done much research on the matter." He motioned to the pointed purple blooms. "Just there."_

_"You lured me here to pick flowers by stealing from us and murdering an innocent animal." Myranda growled. "Why?"_

_"My father owns yours. He is the reason you have a roof over your head. You would do well to remember that."_

_That was a point Myranda could not argue. She was putting her family at risk arguing with her Lord's bastard brat. "What do I do?"_

_"Pull the plants up by the roots. You will need to sneak into the kitchen before the cook and clean the roots, clipping off the foliage. Once every trace of dirt is gone, steep it in a boiling pot. It has an awful, bitter taste. Mix it with lemon and honey."_

_Myranda walked carefully through the clearing to the plot of small, purple blossoms Ramsay had recommended. She knelt in the cool grass and began ripping out plants by their thick, gnarling roots. She had uprooted several plants before she turned to look at Ramsay. His hands were coated in blood as he gutted his victim. She said a small prayer for the pup, hoping his death was swift and painless. "Ramsay." She called. His eyes shot up, his face reading annoyance. She continued anyway. "I do not do this for you. I do this to help my friend."_

_Ramsay snickered, turning his attention back to his work. "It matters not your motives, girl. I have already won."_

She was overwhelmed with the need to run. As fast as she could, as far as she could fathom. She could not stay here, not anymore.

She stumbled to her feet, arrows tumbled from her quiver but she could not be bothered to grab them. Her feet fell lightly on the forest floor.

She had killed her best friend, whether she meant to or not, she had murdered Domeric Bolton with the help of Ramsay Snow and no matter how hard she tried, she could not escape it.

She lost track of time, her hair tangled in knots and clung to the sweat on her brow. She forgot how cold she was, she forgot her exhaustion, she forgot the pain. She just ran. She ran right into a trap set by the ravenous hounds.

She was surrounded, three vicious beasts snarling and salivating on the ground, freezing her in place.

She was out of breath, practically drowning. She had to think fast, pulling her bow off of her shoulder and reached to grab an arrow from her quiver. She knew she would face dire consequences for wounding or killing the dogs. Her father would be heart broken, Ramsay would be furious. Perhaps that constituted cheating. The rules to these infernal games were unclear.

Right now, her flight or fight instincts were taking over and she only knew that she did not want to be ripped to shreds by these dogs. Her hand fumbled, searching for the feathered fletching, coming up short. One. She had one arrow. One shot.

She had no options. If she used the one arrow and shot one dog, the other two would be on her in seconds, of this she had no doubt, whether they were prompted by their master or not. Myranda thought she may have a chance if she just stood there. Ramsay would hear them, Ramsay would come. She may have a chance if he told the dogs to heel. He also may tell them to sick. She really had no other options.

She need not wonder long. She had been so involved in deciphering her own fate that she had not heard the approaching threat. A blur of pasty white skin and blonde hair rushed by. Two of the dogs followed the naked whore, one stood its ground, watching Myranda's heaving breaths.

A twig snapped directly in front of her, just behind the growling hound. She locked the nock of the arrow on the string of the bow, drew back, aimed, and fired, all in a matter of moments. The tip of the arrow lodged in a tree before she could see the approaching danger move in the harrowing darkness.

The chuckling disarmed her. She knew immediately who she had just shot at.

"Wasting arrows, sweetling?"

Her mouth went dry, her palms dripped sweat. The game for her was over.

"Please forgive me." She whispered.

He just laughed again, loading the nock of an arrow onto his own bowstring. He rose the bow slowly until the tip of his ammunition aimed straight for her head. "Stop." He sighed. "Game over."

Myranda closed her eyes and cried silent tears, but did not budge. She could not see death coming, but part of her was not surprised. She was a wicked, vile creature. She deserved it. She could not bring herself to beg. She would just let it all go.

She heard the arrow whip by, the wind being sliced by the fletchings before the blacksmith's daughter screamed in pain just behind her. When she opened her eyes, Ramsay was already walking past her, towards the cowering cunt whose shoulder was now pierced, pinned to a tree by the arrow meant for Myranda.

Myranda had no time to mourn herself. She had to adapt quickly, following the bastard Snow.

She watched the crying girl, recognizing her from the party. She was the one who crawled into Ramsay's lap. The one who laughed far too animatedly, far too loudly. She was tall and thin, not very pretty. She had a full hair of blonde mats and tangles, wildling hair full of branches and leaves. Her naked skin was covered in dirt, blood, and bruises. She had spilled Ramsay's wine and was doused in Damon's in return. Maybe that was the reason she was running completely naked in the woods from a pack of wild beasts.

"Please! I did everything you asked! Do not do this!" She screamed. All three dogs crouched at her ankles now. Not one noticed Myranda, who was now tucked safely behind their sovereign master.

"I grow weary of your pleas, Kira. You always did talk too much." Ramsay chided. He drew another arrow from his quiver. Instead of loading it and putting the girl out of her misery, he handed the arrow to Myranda. "Your play, pet." He offered her a chance as if this were a game of chess.

Myranda's cold, damp hand wrapped around the shaft of the arrow and she just stared at it, dumbfounded. "What if I cannot?" She asked, her voice above a whisper.

"You take the shot, or I give the dogs the command." Ramsay shrugged. "Either way, she is breathing her last."

Kira screamed hysterically.

Jealousy surged deep, intoxicating Myranda. She wanted this girl dead. She wanted to be the only one in Ramsay's bed, the only girl in his heart. She could not kill her, though. That would ruin all of Ramsay's fun.

Moments ago, she was sure she was done for. She must have looked just like this blonde, pitiful and pathetic. She also saw the look on Ramsay's face. Pure joy and triumph. That could be her as well.

Myranda took a deep breath, snapping the arrow into place on the bow string, drawing the string back to her sharp cheekbone. Without a second thought, she released the string. The arrow pinned into the girl's other shoulder, the shot a mirror image of Ramsay's. "Let the dogs have her." She growled, turning on her heels to walk away.

"Rip her." Ramsay's voice bled malice and annoyance. The dogs snarled and the whore screamed. Myranda did not look back. She knew she and Ramsay were alone now, but she could not shake the feelings plaguing her since this awful game began.

Ramsay stayed long enough to enjoy the girl's screams until the woods fell silent. Myranda did not get far in her weak and tired state. It did not take Ramsay long to catch up to her. He grabbed her arm and spun her, pinning her back to a tree. His knee pushed her legs open, parting her thighs to further subdue her. He was pressed against her body, his lips mere inches from her face. "Do you think I dismissed you?"

"It matters not. I was through."

His large, rough hand wrapped around the slim, delicate column of her throat, cutting off her air. "You are through only when I say you are, my pet."

Myranda struggled to breathe, forcing herself to speak. "Well, then, master. May I leave?"

"It seems as though I have given you the wrong impression, sweetling. You do not get to ask me for things. You obey my every whim and pray to the gods that you please me. You are only here because I offered you sanctuary." His knee nudged further up, pressing against her sore and throbbing womanhood.

Despite herself, Myranda groaned at the exquisite pressure applied to her clit. "I do not understand these games." She panted, asphyxia setting in, clouding her mind.

"What fun would that be?" He chuckled, flexing his hand to grant her a gasping breath before brusing her throat.

"I thought you were about to kill me." She whispered.

He cackled again. "That is the final round, Myranda. My father made me promise to keep you until you were of no use to us. He thinks you can save me. He has no idea what you have done." He mocked her. "I easily could have killed you. I decided not to."

"You are killing me." She grunted. It was true. She saw no feasible way out of this for herself.

She shoved her head forward, locking their lips together. He growled, but did nothing to stop her. Their tongues tangled violently before he nipped it with his teeth. She was surprised, but replied by biting his lower lip, pulling it back with her.

He groaned, releasing her throat. She gasped and coughed in response. She was lucky to be alive.

He reached for her hand. "Come, sweet. It has been a long night."

Myranda did not pause. She had no choice. Hand in hand, they headed home


	10. Bored

_"You sent for me, Lord Bolton?" Myranda clasped her shaking hands in front of her as she exited the doorway. Lord Roose Bolton had requested her presence in the bailey. The scullery maid, Maggie, had helped her brush her hair, braiding the top half away from her face, and put her in the cleanest dress she had, lacing the garment as tightly as possible for modesty._

_"Yes, girl. Stop wasting my time and come here." He growled, his words sharp and to the point._

_Myranda did as she was bade to do, bowing her head as she came within inches of the master of her home. "I beg your pardon, sir."_

_"Yes, yes. I haven't much time for this childishness. I have affairs elsewhere that require my undivided attention. I must leave for the Riverlands within the fortnight." Lord Bolton cleared his throat and began strolling through the courtyard. Myranda followed as she had been trained to do. "I have heard a few rumors since your return. It's truly a wonder you are still alive."_

_"Has he figured you out yet?" Ramsay's voice toyed with her in the depths of her mind and she shuddered. That could not be why he called her here. She was lying to herself. She knew very well how easily the Bolton's could persuade people. She knew the depths of Ramsay's conniving ways and she knew that if she pushed him far enough, there was no stopping him from using her secrets against her. That was a far better scheme than luring her into the woods would be. At the same time, that would take away all of his carefully calculated control and that did not seem to be very likely._

_"I am truly blessed, my lord."_

_"I should say so. Others did not fare so well." He chided. "I thought we had an understanding."_

_"Yes, of course, my lord. I did not have much time and I –""_

_"Enough." He boomed, coming to a halt. "I did not ask for excuses, I asked for results. I will be leaving Ramsay as castellan in my stead and I would like for you to keep his affections while I am gone."_

_"Yes, m'lord." She nodded, trying her best to numb the anger boiling inside of herself._

_Roose merely rolled his eyes, infuriating the young girl even further. "Has he fucked you, yet?"_

_Her eyes grew wide with shock and she whimpered in response, dumbstruck. "I-I-I..." She stuttered._

_"I have heard my bastard enjoys pain. You could use that information in your favor." His words were casual though the subject matter was forbidden. These people truly were extraordinary at jesting. "When I leave, I need reassurance that things will be under control here. I think we both know what would befall you if you no longer had a roof over your head, little girl."_

_Myranda nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of his words._

_Roose raised his brow. "Do we have an understanding?"_

_"Yes, of course, my lord."_

__

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Several Weeks Later

Myranda raced down the corridor's barefoot, the cold eating through her bones and causing chill bumps up and down her arms and legs. Perhaps that was just the anticipation. Her nipples were sharp little daggers. Her thin, plunging dress did little to cover up that fact. Her whole body was responding to one singular fact: he was home.

Finally. She had lost track of the days since she had seen him last, but he was here, in the flesh. She had been worried sick since Ramsay had been called away by his wicked father with orders to take Winterfell. Her head spun when he explained to her that he had to leave at once with his army of loyal banner men to sack the castle while it was still vulnerable.

She did not understand all the details only because he had not bothered to explain further. Winterfell had fallen from the Stark's hands and the time to strike was now. Ramsay told her he would be leaving. The night before he left, he fucked her, taking her from behind because he loved to make her push back onto his thick cock. He said the position made her more ravenous, like the true vixen she was.

She had spent the past few weeks in ruins, trying to find things to keep her mind occupied while Ramsay was away. She read through countless books, some historical fiction and some about anatomy and torture that she found quite interesting. Ramsay must have also found these books useful because some of the pages had been marked before her perusal. Myranda also set up a target in the bailey below her chambers and practiced archery. Making good use of the skill now may prove to impress Lord Snow. All she wanted was his approval.

Once or twice she had wandered out of her rooms and into one of the halls where the other whores mingled, gambling and gossiping. They may not have included her, exactly, but they regarded her with respect because they had to. She acted with confidence in their midst because she had no reason not to anymore.

Myranda had done everything she could think to extinguish the lonely void inside, but now she need not worry longer.

She paid no heed to the fact that she was without shoes and ran out of the fort. The portcullis was mid-rise and the first of the banner men funneled into the courtyard, trickling in at a steady pace with their flags raised high above their heads.

Myranda raised the skirts of her dress up to her ankles and rushed into the gathered crowd of faithful servants. She heard the ebony front hooves clacking in the wet earth first. She followed the length of Blood's lean, muscled legs upward until her cool, grey eyes found Ramsay's proud and rugged face. He was unshaven and unkempt after the long travel from Winterfell home, but his eyes did not show his disdain or exhaustion. No, he looked as fervent and zealous as ever, his eyes sparkling with indignance and pleasure.

The clamor and commotion in the courtyard was cut short when Ramsay raised one gloved hand, silencing his loyal crowd. When the squalling had descended to a low hum, he opened his parched, rosy lips. "We reign victorious!" He shouted. The crowd roared in triumph.

Damon emerged from the group on a mahogany colored gelding, flanking his lord on the right, brandishing the cargo he had in his lap. It was a man, Myranda knew from the masculine build and muscular structure, but his face was covered by a burlap sack and his appendages were tethered. He leapt from his horse, dragging the unconscious being inside the great manor while all the peasants were jovially welcoming home their vassel's reigning lord bastard.

Myranda kept her eyes open, absorbing all the fanfare and sleight of hand. She knew Ramsay and his men had captured someone of importance while away. If not, they would have flayed the traitors and displayed their dismembered bodies as a warning.

Myranda stood on the outskirts, close to the forts stone walls, until the cheering died and the crowd dwindled. She watched Ramsay dismount his black stallion. The stable boy came and collected Blood to remove his saddle and prepare him for a well-deserved rest. Ramsay ignored the town folk who wished to shake his hand. They were empty gestures, garnered by fear. Ramsay's foreboding aura parted the crowd and he escaped to the fortitude of his home.

Myranda skirted the building and slipped in close behind him. She had to will herself to speak. "Ramsay…" Her voice was practically silent with uncertainty.

Ramsay ceased his fast paced gait, but did not turn to face her, "You really must work on your sly nature." He snickered. "If one presumes to be a fox, you must be more covert."

Myranda sauntered up in front of the bastard of the Dreadfort. "I was not trying to hide from you. If you are the hunter, I am begging to be caught." She purred. "I missed you terribly."

"Of course you did." Ramsay cackled. Myranda did not flinch when he touched her, edging his thumb along her sharp jawline. It was a soft, romantic gesture that quickly turned deadly when he wrapped his hand around her throat and pushed her into the wall. "Did you truly miss me, or my cock, sweetling? Did you miss being fucked, or did someone else stifle your desires?"

Myranda's tiny hand gripped his wrist but the pressure was not enough to force him to release her. Her voice was strained, but clear. "You know where I belong."

Ramsay's hand loosened and he drug the appendage down her chest to toy with the laces of her suggestive neckline. "You are right, love. I do." He growled, raising his brow. "Now, I wish to disrobe and bathe after my long ride." He took a step back to pull away, but Myranda grabbed his hand and put it back on her breast.

"I could draw you a bath and help you relax, my lord." She said, seductively.

The dark lord chuckled softly. "No, pet. I have other matters that beg my attention far more important than my cock." He stroked her cheek lightly with the back of his forefinger before pushing her face away. "Run along now, little fox."

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Several days passed by where Myranda was left alone again despite Ramsay's presence at the Dreadfort. He had returned home, but her life still had a large void. She could count on one hand the number of times she had caught glimpses of her true love in the manor. Far fewer, in fact, was the number of times he had taken it upon himself to fuck her.

He would slip into her room in the quiet of the night, infiltrating her soft down comforters and furs. She slept naked now, always, so he found little resistance. Her cunt glistened every time she felt his presence draw near and he would push himself into her, pushed her face down into the pillows as she awoke with a fright. He loved how she fought back and she loved that he found that interesting. He was violent and possessive ad allowed her no reprieve. As soon as he had entered her, he was forcing cries from her chest and spattering his hot seed down her thighs before running out of the door.

Since returning home, Ramsay spent all of his free time fully clothed and reclusive in the dungeon. He took his meals there, as well. She knew where the secret doorway was to the dingy, underground chamber, but every one of the bastard's boys was crawling in and out of the cloaked cavern at all hours of the night. She did not want to seem too eager nor would she chance angering Ramsay when he was already leery of her company.

On this particular night, the urges had her panting and whining for human contact. She needed more frequently, more easily now. It was as though fucking Ramsay had awakened something dull inside of her. Yes, she had wanted sex before, ever since she came of age, but now her entire body was on high alert more than ever before and it was driving her mad.

It was late, and the sky was dark and foreboding, no moons or stars in sight. Myranda pulled on her dressing gown and left the room before she could talk herself into staying tucked away and taking her own pleasure. She crept quietly down the corridor just as Damon was entering the hall with a decanter of wine in hand. "Ramsay is not here." He warned, looking her up and down. "I am afraid something of his has escaped. He has gone out to retrieve it."

Myranda stood in startled silence for a moment, her brain working quickly to compute. "And you are not with him?"

He smirked, coldly. "No, miss. Some of the other boys went in my stead. It seems he has left me in charge until his triumphant return."

Myranda scoffed. "I assume that means he will not be gone long."

Damon grunted. "Afraid not. Pity, really." He held up the glass bottle in his hand, allowing the flickering light from the wall sconce to glow off of its surface. "Care to join me?"

Her mind worked swiftly, malice and jealousy luring her thoughts. "I suppose in Ramsay's absence, you would be second best."

Damon was not stupid. He did not like to indulge in games. "I will not be fucking you, if that is all you are after. I have seen what befalls someone so stupid as to enter the master's favorite whore."

Favorite.

"I am his favorite?"

"Are you daft or just naïve?" Damon growled.

Myranda regained her composure. "If we are not about to fuck, then what would I be doing in your company?"

"I was just on my way to see my own favorite whore. Violet loves an audience."

He wanted her to watch. He wanted her to watch him fuck that blonde whore, Violet. She was the pretty little bitch who had teased her just before she had won Ramsay's affections. That was not all that Myranda had won that night. Since their hunt, Myranda had won the respect of ever whore in the castle. They may hate her with a jealous rage, but they dare not speak their vehement aloud in her presence ever again.

The ache between Myranda's legs grew more wild. If Ramsay was not on the property and no other man would touch her in his absence, then she had few options but to touch herself like she was so accustomed. It would be so much more arousing to do so with entertainment other than her own imagination for a change. Perhaps knowing that Myranda had come just from watching another man fuck the blonde whore would be enough to boil Ramsay's blood. "Alright."

He smiled darkly. "Excellent." He said no more, merely continued his path down the hall, stopping at the door almost directly across from Myranda's own. His knuckles tapped the dark wood once before twisting the knob and pushing his way inside.

In the room, the fire was fully ablaze and candles lit the opposite side of the chamber. It was warmer tonight than it had been, though summer in the north was no sauna like it had been in the south.

Violet stood before the fire, completely naked. She did not shy away when she realized that Damon had entered the room with company in tow. She seemed as though she was not the least bit bothered by the intrusion, despite her detest for Myranda. "You brought company?"

"The girl was curious." Damon shrugged. "I also brought wine."

"Is it one of those nights?" Violet laughed.

"I had no delusions about what type of night this was going to be."

"Very well." She motioned to the table near the large, four poster bed, upon which rested two goblets. Damon walked over to the table, leaving Myranda alone in the doorway, standing awkwardly. She was having second thoughts now that the prospect of voyeurism was real and tangible. "You may shut the door, you know?" Violet's shrill voice cut the tension. "Come here, little miss septa." She called.

The brunette slowly shut the door and the lock clicked into place. Her steps were soft and cautious. The blonde grew impatient and met her halfway. "You brought this timid creature into my chambers to impress me?" Violet taunted.

"She mustn't be so timid and quiet if she pleases Ramsay as he says." Damon laughed, swigging a glass of wine only to refill the goblet.

Violet ran her hands over Myranda's shoulders and spun the girl to face Damon, massaging her neck. "Have you taken a good look at her? You mean to tell me this shy, quiet little thing is satisfying the bastard alone?"

Damon froze and glared at the whore, his knuckles white on the metal glass in his hand. "Watch your fucking tongue."

Violet did not flinch. Her gentle kneading of Myranda's muscles turned to soft caresses. She brushed the brunette's hair off of her neck and over one shoulder. "You must be so tense, sweet." Violet cooed. "I have heard all of the stories. Ramsay's been so busy with the iron born prince."

"Violet." Damon growled.

"A mere slip of the tongue." The blonde chided. "I am sure that being Ramsay's bed warmer, she has heard all about the Greyjoy brat and his enormous cock."

Myranda was confused. Yes, she knew of the iron born. When she was quite young, Lord Balon Greyjoy had rebelled against King Robert and failed, losing two sons in the process. His youngest son and only surviving heir, Theon, had been traded to the Starks in exchange for the Greyjoy's keeping their reign over Pyke. Even in the Reach she had heard tale of Theon's endowment and how he had quite the way with women. It occurred to Myranda that he must be the prize Ramsay took from Winterfell, though it was not clear to her why.

Damon seemed to mull that notion over for a moment. "Perhaps." He murmured, nodding slowly.

"Even so, the girl is so speechless, she dare not utter a word." Violet's soft lips touched Myranda's neck and the gentle contact buckled Myranda's knees, sending tremors through her molten center. "She is incredibly responsive." Violet observed.

"Yes." Damon took a seat in the cushioned wing-back near the table, facing the fireplace. He watched the blonde and brunette with half-hooded eyes as he downed another goblet of wine.

"It's no wonder Ramsay has forbidden his boys from your chambers." She hummed, her breath whispering over Myranda's heated skin. She suckled softly at the woman's neck, just behind her ears and Myranda was helpless to stifle her own cries. "I wonder if the same could be said for a fellow whore…?"

The blonde's hands roamed over the vixen's shoulders, the tips of her fingers whispered over her taut breasts and the thin dressing gown did little to hide the pin pricks of her nipples. Before she could protest, the sash of her robe was undone and the garment fell away, leaving Myranda deliciously bare in front of virtual strangers. The girl blushed, covering herself with her arms.

"Oh, now don't be shy." Violet purred. "I am sure you are aching for it, sweet. I want to sample what the whole castle has been talking about and Damon wants to watch me flick my tongue over your sweet little cunt."

Myranda growled. The hand covering her pussy flexed, placing pressure on her clit for a moment before denying herself more.

"You must be remarkable." Violet's hands were over Myranda's now. She pulled her arm away from her breasts and forced the other appendage to knead Myranda's dripping cunt before dragging that one away as well. There was no turning back now for the master's favorite bed warmer. She spun around and pressed her lips to Violet's, stunning the girl into an uncharacteristic silence. Her lips were softer, more graceful than Ramsay's. They lacked the passion and ferocity that Myranda craved more than anything, but right now she did not care.

The blonde pulled her by the hands without breaking the kiss and spun her, pushing her back onto the bed in the center of the room. Myranda lost focus when she heard the chair scrape across the floor. Damon had his breeches around his ankles and was now facing the two on the bed, one fist around his angry, protruding cock.

The blonde climbed over Myranda, putting one thigh between her legs, straddling one of the brunette's thighs in turn. They kissed softly, their tongues rolling over each other's in a slow, romantic dance. Violet massaged the vixen's small breasts tentatively. Before long, she was rolling her hips, smearing her wet, wanton cunt on Myranda's thigh, moaning into Myranda's mouth. In response, the brunette lifted her hips, grinding her own cunt in the same way. In the background, she heard Damon groan.

Violet's delicate lips and warm, wet tongue worked their way down her long, graceful neck, creating a moist trail from her mouth to her tight, tense tits. She paid each equal attention, circling each nipple teasingly before sucking the peak into her mouth, toying with it gently with her teeth until the little fox was panting. Her tongue dipped into the girl's navel. She kissed up Myranda's thighs, spreading them as far as she could with her shoulders, breathing hot and heavy on Myranda's gleaming cunt. "Such a pretty little pussy." She whispered.

Surprisingly, Damon heard her. "Let me see."

Violet turned to the side, watching the tall blond as he worked his length up and down in one hand, rolling his balls with the other. Using her fingers, she worked Myranda's lower lips open gently and pushed one finger in, swirling it quickly before pulling it out. "So tight." She hummed as Myranda whimpered. The brunette tangled her hands in the blonde head of hair and coaxed her mouth lower. "You want my tongue, eager girl?" Violet laughed. "Maybe I like having you greedy like this."

"Fuck her." Damon growled.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Violet had her tongue peeking through her lips, flicking over Myranda's clit in quick, fast bursts. The brunette's whole body bucked off the bed and she was pushing herself into the blonde whore's mouth, her hand's holding her steady. She alternated between long, slow laps and quick, pulsating flicks, driving the vixen wild.

The bed shifted. Myranda opened her eyes and Damon was behind Violet who had lifted her ass, now perched on all fours. As Damon entered her, Violet's lips became suctioned to Myranda's swollen little bundle of nerves and she pushed two fingers inside Ramsay's favorite whore. "Yes!" Myranda cried, bucking her hips. Damon grunted, fucking Violet harder and pushing her face into Myranda as she curled her fingers inside of her. His hand spanked the blonde's ass as he pumped his cock inside of her depths, Myranda watching the whole scene above her, entranced while still hell bent on her own approaching orgasm.

She was unraveling quickly, her body tensing. One final flick, timed with Violet's expert fingers and Myranda's whole body released with a scream and Violet rose up on her hands, hovering over Myranda as Damon plowed into her. The vixen lay there, panting, as Damon came inside the blonde with a roaring howl. Violet's face was stark with bemusement as she moaned. It sounded convincing, but Myranda knew if for what it really was.

As the blond pulled away, Violet fell onto Myranda and she caught her with her lips. The brunette's hand crept down Violet's stomach and she coaxed her cunt apart. Her fingers slipped through the juices and semen and she rubbed her until she mewled in her mouth and shook around her fingers. Damon quietly pulled up his trousers and tucked away his softening cock, thanking the girls drunkenly for a wonderful evening. He slipped out of the room, leaving the panting girl's to come down from their orgasm high in an exhausted heap on the bed.

Myranda's head slowly came back to clarity as the endorphins wore off. Ramsay would be furious, engrossed in jealous rage. It was that notion that gave her a wonderfully wicked idea.

"Violet, how do you feel about playing a little game?"


	11. Give Me a Sign

A few weeks passed in the Dreadfort when Maggie summoned her lady Myranda to Violet's chambers early one morning, right after breakfast. She was not surprised by the gesture, but by the hour.

She left her chambers and crossed the hall, finding the blonde slumped over the table in the wing-backed chair. When she heard Myranda shut the door behind her, she peered up at her over her arm through a curtain of golden waves.

"Violet." Myranda sighed. "You look awful."

"The physician just left, Myranda." The whore said sternly. "I am with child."

Myranda could not help but snicker, catching herself quickly. She treaded closer to the center of the room where Violet sat. "Whose child do you carry?"

The blonde's skin was pale. "I cannot be sure."

Myranda thought back on all the times she and Ramsay had fucked. Each time ended with Ramsay finishing on her rather than inside of her. "Surely it is not Ramsay's."

Violet sighed. "It is either Lord Ramsay's or Damon's. Please, Myranda, you must help me. I swore the physician to silence. I cannot tell anyone else. I cannot!" She burst into hysterical tears.

"What would you have me do?" Myranda asked.

Violet sobbed, "You were a septa, were you not? You must have some type of training, some potion you would prescribe."

Myranda knew of tonics and teas to treat such an ailment. She had witness others administer them before in the Reach, where whore houses outnumbered septs. She had even helped brew tansy tea before, she had seen it work firsthand. She was able to help this girl but she had to be willing to do so.

If the baby was Ramsay's, she wanted it gone. She would not be able to stomach the notion that some other sniveling cunt had owned a piece of her true love. She could go to the forest, locate tansy blossoms, and return with the tonic to annihilate the unborn child.

There was a good chance the tea itself would kill Violet. She was growing to tolerate the girl after their tryst with Damon and even admired her for her aid in seducing Theon Greyjoy but she was still competition and that jealous urge drove Myranda closer to taking dangerous measures to secure her own place in the Dreadfort and fortify herself in Ramsay's heart.

"Tansy tea." Myranda whispered. "I can find the blooms this time of year and brew you a tonic, but it is not to be fooled with. It will surely kill the babe, but you may grow ill."

"I do not care!" Violet hissed. "I want it gone! I cannot bare a bastard Snow! I cannot."

"Violet, it could kill you. Is having the child so terrible that you may cause your own death to prevent it?"

"If Damon or Ramsay find out that I am carrying a child, they will make that decision for me. I have seen it happen, Myranda. I would rather risk everything to have a slim chance than face certain death!"

Myranda bit her tongue to keep from laughing. "I will do as you say. Give me time. I will come when it is ready."

"Oh, bless you, Myranda! Thank you!" Violet sobbed, grasping the brunette's hand, kissing her knuckles.

"Yes, well. I would not thank me just yet." She smirked.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Myranda rushed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. She was careful of the mug in her hand, trying her best to keep the warm liquid inside, but she could not make herself slow down. She was anxious, her heart fluttering with nervous energy.

Myranda found Violet just where she had left her only hours before: slumped over in the chair with her head in her hands. The blonde's head perked up when she heard the brunette enter the chamber and she smiled eagerly when she saw the mug in her hands. Steam billowed into Myranda's face as her feet padded across the room. She offered the girl the mug in her hands and the girl accepted eagerly, muttering "thank you" as she guzzled the contents down.

"Easy!" Myranda chastised. "The effects of the tonic can be severe!"

Violet did not look up until the mug was emptied. She practically threw the container on the table, swallowing the bitter liquid overzealously. "But is that not the point?"

"I meant for both the babe and for yourself, foolish girl." Myranda snarled. "You will be in excruciating pain for the next few days."

"I would much rather face whatever this potion will do than the dogs…" Violet sighed.

Myranda hung her head. She knew the girl thought she was right. Soon, she would see. "You should lay down. You will need the rest."

The blonde nodded. "Alright." She pushed the chair back from the table with both hands and tried to stand, collapsing back into the chair a few seconds later.

"It seems you are already seeing the effects." Myranda smirked, self-satisfied.

"I feel very strange." Violet hummed, her lids only half-opened.

"Come now, into bed." Myranda grabbed the girl's hand, trying to help her up.

"Is this normal?"

"Oh, heavens yes!" Myranda laughed. "You need to rest."

The blonde's eyes slipped shut again and her head lulled to the side. "This is not right." She murmured. "Have you tricked me, Myranda?"

The brunette smiled. "Hush now. Rest. It will all be over soon."

Violet's eyes shut again and she was unconscious.

_____________________________________________________________________________

"Mind her head!" Myranda chastised, following closely behind Damon as he toted the senseless whore down the stairs toward the dungeon.

"I fail to see why the fuck it matters now what happens to her head." Damon growled. "It certainly will not matter once she has been delivered to the master."

"I do not believe that you would say such things after you deliver damaged goods to Lord Ramsay."

"That may be true, but may I remind you that you could very easily take her place."

Myranda bit her tongue, knowing that what the Bolton bastard's right hand was saying was true.

After their talk that morning, Myranda went into the woods with every intention of finding the tansy flowers required to abort the child Violet carried in her womb. She wandered with her thoughts for some time and came across a patch of belladonna. That was when the idea struck her. She ripped the plants up by their gnarling, screeching roots and tucked them into the parcel on her hip. Her vision became short-sighted. She saw one thing, and one thing only. She would intoxicate the whore. She would make a lovely surprise for Lord Ramsay, another rung in the ladder to achieve acceptance and gratitude.

The golden-maned whore draped over Damon's shoulder groaned, lifting her head a bit to projectile vomit bile down the hulking man's back. The blond man growled. "Fucking whore."

"It's the poison." Myranda scoffed. "Or the bastard spawn."

Damon snickered. They crossed the threshold into the underground torture chamber and Damon tossed the girl on his shoulder onto the floor unceremoniously as though she was nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

"That is no way to treat the guest of honor…" Myranda mocked.

Damon rolled his eyes. "I will go fetch Ramsay." He slipped out of the room as quickly as he arrived, leaving Myranda alone with the comatose Violet in the dank, musty room.

Myranda quickly lit a fire and set herself to work. She took the wooden chair in the corner of the room and drug it closer to the lump that was once the vivacious, out-spoken whore of the manor. She hooked her arms under Violets and drug the girl up until she sat in the chair and arranged her until she would sit securely. Then, she walked over to the table covered in implements of torture and thought carefully over each one, weighing her options as she waited for the men to return.

Each object looked more terrifying and gruesome than the last. Sharp tines, rusted metal. Each was expertly designed to induce and prolong suffering. Ramsay's arsenal of anguish and agony was immense and well-rounded. Myranda reached out to touch a double-ended sharp fork with a leather belt around the center. The cold metal sent a shudder through her bones.

The girl jumped when behind her, Ramsay cleared his throat. The fork she was touching clattered to the floor. "What's all this?"

"Ramsay…" She began, biting her tongue when she realized she had used his name outside of the bedroom.

"Damon told me that you and Violet had a surprise for me…" He mused, crossing the floor to pick up the apparatus on the floor to place it back on the table.

Damon peered his head in from around the corner, followed shortly by another man whose head was covered by a mask. Reluctantly, Reek shuffled in a few moments after, settling himself in the corner of the room, quietly blending in. Myranda found the courage she needed to speak. "He told you the truth."

"And the other girl?" Ramsay smirked, looking to Violet who was slumped over in the chair, still completely unconscious.

"She has a surprise of her own." Myranda explained. "My surprise was to bring her here for the festivities to follow."

Ramsay grabbed a bottle off of the table and stalked over to the sleeping form of Violet. He popped the top off the glass bottle and ran it under the blonde's nose with no response. "Tell me, love, what was it you used to drug the whore?"

Myranda smiled demurely. "You would know, my lord. She fell victim to deadly nightshade."

Ramsay's face tensed with a bitter amusement only he possessed. "Belladonna, sweetling? And you expected her to wake up and tell me a tale afterward?"

The smile melted from Myranda's face. "It was barely enough to harm a fly. I only wanted her more malleable and compliant, my lord. I did not mean to kill her."

"Not yet, you mean. And Damon, you knew about this?" Ramsay growled.

"I knew the girl was unconscious. The lady, Myranda, asked my help to escort the lady, Violet, to the dungeon. She promised that when I knew why, both you and I would be grateful for what she had done."

Ramsay chuckled. "Then this is a tale I must hear. Pray, pet, tell me what secret Violet holds that would keep you from suffering the same fate she is awaiting."

Myranda froze, stunned. "She is expecting a child." The girl stammered before she could lose her courage.

Ramsay studied the brunette's face carefully before erupting in hysterical laughter. "Oh, dear… how painfully dull." He mocked. "If that is indeed the case, then we have a lovely evening ahead of us." Ramsay's eye sparkled, the deepest blue-gray she could imagine as he cackled malevolently.

Myranda glanced over her master's shoulder and watched Damon's face drop as the realization struck him. Not only was his favorite bed warmer about to die, but the unborn child she carried would suffer as well. The child could be his and he had no power to stop Ramsay. He would have to sit back and watch, possibly even participate. He may not have real feelings for this girl, but the child housed inside of her was innocent and sentenced to death for just existing.

All because of her.

"Well, first things first, love." Ramsay clapped his hands together. "Boys, I will have to lay the girl out on the table." He motioned to the empty table against the farthest wall of the dungeon. "Bring the table here." He motioned to an open area near the fire.

With no resistance, the men both grabbed the table in the corner of the room, lifting it with ease, to carry it to the indicated area. Upon further inspection, with the light of the flickering flame, Myranda noted that the table was no ordinary piece of furniture. No, it was straps protruding from each of the four corners that appeared to buckle. On the side of the table closest to her, there was a wheel, unlike anything she had ever seen before. She looked to the opposite side of the furnishing and found yet another wheel, adjacent to hers.

As Myranda examined the new toy Ramsay had procured, the men grabbed the blonde easily between them and escorted her limp body from the chair, dropping her on the center of the table. Without being instructed, they each stood on either side of her and proceeded to strap the whore's hands and feet down to the corners of the table until she was spread out in the most vulnerable way. Once done, the two men took a step back and moved to stand at attention closer to the fire, still in eyesight.

"Myranda, my sweet, do you see the mechanism on the side of the table?"

"Yes, my lord." Myranda gulped.

"Good girl." He murmured. "Turn the dial. See what happens."

Her dainty fingers wrapped around the metal. It felt like ice, cutting through her skin. It took both hands to gather enough strength to turn the wheel on her own. The wheel tugged that the straps on her side of the table, pulling Violet's limbs taut on the surface.

Ramsay walked around the table, facing Myranda on the opposite side. He had to exert less force, tightening the restraints on his side to match Myranda's. "Good and snug?" He asked.

Myranda tested the leather wrapped around Violet's pale, fragile wrist. "Yes…"

"Excellent." Ramsay sneered. "Tighter." He braced his hands on the dial and dared her with his eyes.

Myranda did as she was bid and tightened the straps even further.

In the corner, Reek whimpered. "Do not look away." Ramsay warned. "You know the consequences." The invalid Greyjoy shuffled until he was facing the table again. Painfully, he looked up. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open and he watched the scene play out before them. 

Ramsay followed suit closely behind the vixen and the whores limbs straightened out. An audible pop cut through the air as the blonde's joints snapped out of place. The girl was no longer unconscious. No, she was screaming wildly, her whole body lifted off of the table. Her eyes were wide open, blood shot and murderous. "Traitorous whore!" Scream screamed, her voice shrill and cracking.

With no instruction, the masked man stepped in and grabbed the pregnant woman's neck, slamming her down onto the work space and rendering her silent. Her breathing remained labored and she strained against him.

With the new found silence, Myranda found that Ramsay was still laughing maniacally. "Wonderful! It is always much more fun when they are conscious!" He looked to Myranda. "Sweetling, fetch the fork you dropped earlier. Bring it here."

Myranda did as she was told, grabbing the implement off of the table and carried it to Ramsay, placing it in his hand. Ramsay took the tool and flicked his other wrist, shooing the masked man away from the table again. Violet, paralyzed by fear, did not move. She panted, wide-eyed as she watched Ramsay's every move.

He took the metal in his hand and brushed the straw-colored waves off of the girl's throat and placed the sharp tines of the fork under her chin. The opposite end pricked the skin at the top of her sternum. With her body lifted off of the table slightly, he wrapped the collar around her throat, locking the dangerous necklace in place. "There. That ought to keep you still enough to continue."

Tears broke free, spilling over the rims of the blonde's clear orbs as the prongs of the device bit into her skin. One false move and the spokes of the fork would pierce her skin. One wrong move and she would be sorry.

"Violet, dear. Myranda tells me there is something you have been keeping from me. The very reason you are here." Ramsay crossed his arms, circling the table. "I would like to hear it straight from your lips."

Stone silence. Violet was afraid to speak. Consequences would be painful. She would suffer ramifications from the tool under her chin and from the Lord's bastard.

Myranda felt the need to interject. "She cannot –"

"Uh, uh, uh…" Ramsay tutted "She can speak for herself."

Moments passed and silence fell. The only noise disturbing the peace were light sobs coming from Violet's chest. "I am carrying a child." She whispered.

Ramsay perked his ears. "Come again?"

"I am with child." Her voice was barely audible, her lips barely moved.

"Once more, dear. A little louder?" Ramsay mocked the blonde.

"I am pregnant!" Violet screeched. She shuddered, her voice far too loud and annoyed. The tines on either side of the fork bit into her pale, creamy skin, crimson streams streaking the alabaster perfection.

Ramsay laughed as the girl cried, clenching her teeth to keep from screaming and causing further harm. "Pity that." He chided. "I suppose next you will tell me it is my mistake?"

"No." Violet hissed with indignance.

The Bolton bastard marched to the table and clenched the girl's cheeks in his hand. "I beg your pardon?" He growled through gritted teeth.

Without hesitating, she whispered, "Yes…"

Ramsay cackled triumphantly. "I suppose then that a celebration is in order!" He was practically frothing at the mouth.

Myranda could not move. She was frozen in place, torn between fascination and fear. She was terrified, but she could not look away. She did not even realize Ramsay was calling to her until Damon cleared his throat, breaking her from her trance. "Yes, m'lord."

"Fetch me the pear." He ordered. "It looks like a budding blossom with a finger loop at its crest."

She tore herself away, her fingers sore and colorless from gripping the dial so tightly. She approached the table of torture devices cautiously, as though the weapons were armed and waiting for her. She took a good look at the table and found the item that Ramsay had described. It was a metal pear with intricate designs embellishing the four distinct sides of the implement. The metal was cold and dirty, but the design of it was like fine art. She found it hard to believe that such a beautiful gadget could be used as a contraption for anguish, but she was curious to see how it worked.

Myranda forced her feet to move, walking herself back to the table where Violet was drawn. The blonde's eyes were wide and terror stricken. She was cursing Myranda for putting her in this place. The brunette offered the metal fruit to Ramsay without thinking about how she had betrayed the blonde laid out in front of her.

"Tell me, sweetling, have you ever seen one of these before?" Ramsay grinned.

Myranda shook her head. "No."

"Reek?"

The former prince of Pyke stunned, looked up and stuttered. "N-n-no, my lord." 

The Bolton bastard cast a glance over his shoulder towards his right hand. "Damon?"

The blond cleared his throat. "Tis a pear of anguish, my lord."

"Does it look a bit like the fruit, sweet?"

The kennel master's daughter nodded. "Yes, m'lord."

He smiled brightly, his eye teeth catching the light. "Watch closely, my love. Reek, pay attention."

She did. She watched as his hands worked the turn screw at the base of the device. Slowly, as he turned the metal key, the petals of the bud bloomed. The end of each petal was a pointed spike, blossoming in Ramsay's hand until the mechanism reached its maximum diameter. Still smiling, wickedly, Ramsay walked around Myranda, holding the pear out for her to examine. He stood behind her. One hand moved the hair on her neck over to the side, the other held the pear out in front of her.

"Can you guess what it does?"

Myranda thought of what the device could possibly do. It stretched out in four directions as you turned the key at its base. There was only one logical answer. "It rips things apart."

"Very good, sweetling!" Ramsay chided. His breath was hot against her neck, her ear. "Now imagine me putting this inside of your tight little cunt and twisting the key."

Myranda's breath hitched in her throat as she pictured was Ramsay was describing. Ashamedly, she already grew wet from his close proximity.

The blonde on the table was screaming, blood curdling screams, when she heard what Ramsay was promising. The tines of the fork pierced the skin again, this time lodging themselves in her flesh.

"What do you think, my dear? Should we tear the whore apart from the inside?"

Her eyes locked with Violet's, lying helpless on the table, spread open before everyone in the room. Without hesitation she hissed, "Yes."

"Filthy, traitorous cunt!" Violet screamed, bucking her body wildly as blood poured down her neck, the fork was now permanently wedged in her chin and the apex of her sternum.

Damon walked over to her, perhaps to hold her down or to try and remove the fork's tines from her flesh, but Ramsay waved his hand to stop the hulking blond.

He came out from behind Myranda and began twisting the key on the pear again. This time, the four petals closed slowly, coming together at the pointed tip. "Strip her." He nodded to Damon and the masked man.

The two henchmen surrounded her on either side of the blonde wailed and thrashed despite the pain she must have been experiencing. The men pinned her easily and tore her dress from her, ripped the laces down the front and slicing the skirt away, stretching it open in front of her until only the sleeves remained over her arms.

The fork's tines were bending and the only thing keeping them from traveling further into Violet's flesh were the bones beneath her skin. She was shivering, perhaps from the sheer cold of the room, perhaps fear, perhaps a culmination of the two. She was clenching her thighs together as Ramsay approached her. He laughed at her futile attempts to avoid him. He ripped her thighs open and Damon and the masked man held her down as Ramsay inserted the clenched pear inside of Violet's vagina. He met the resistance with ample force, tearing her cunt in the process. The blonde whore screamed and cried as Myranda watched with morbid fascination.

"Mayhap I will meet my bastard tonight!" Ramsay laughed as he pulled away enough to watch Violet's reaction.

The first twist of the key made the whore howl. Damon did his best to hold her shoulders. It was a loving gesture, but did nothing to comfort the girl.

Ramsay left little time in between, twisting the key a full turn. Ramsay held his shoulders a certain way, allowing Myranda a chance to see the full effect of the Bolton's work. Blood dripped from the whore's cunt, but all she could see was the tip of the pear peeking out.

The third turn made the girl vomit. It might have been a side effect of the poison or the hysteria or perhaps even the pregnancy. With the tines in the way, propping her mouth shut, she could not expel all of the bile from her mouth. She was choking and sputtering on the liquid blocking her throat.

Ramsay stopped mid-turn. "Stop her! She cannot die! Not yet!"

Damon tilted her head, using his finger to try and clear her throat. It was too late. Violet sputtered a few final times before passing out again.

Reek cried out, tears leaking from the brims of his eyes.

Myranda crouched beside the table, checking the golden-haired girl's pulse. She found no heartbeat. "Dead." Myranda whispered. Myranda grinned. "The stupid bitch is dead."

Damon and the masked man pulled away as Ramsay pouted like an impudent child. "She cannot die!" He twisted the key over and over until the mechanism clicked and would no longer turn, wedged inside of Violet as the last of her crimson life source spilled out of her.

"Sir." Damon called.

"Get rid of the body." Ramsay growled, looking right at his male pet. "Consider her a gift, Reek. Just get her out of my sight."


	12. Until The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last chapter to this story. I hope my ending does Myranda and Ramsay's relationship justice and allows some more insight into this misunderstood union. 
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos. It means so much to me to get feedback on my work, especially when the fandom I am writing for is so small .

Days passed. Evening drew near and Myranda found herself following an invisible path to Ramsay's chambers where she found Reek perched just outside of his bedroom door.

"Reek." She nodded.

"M'lady. You s-s-should not be here." He stuttered.

"And why is that?" Myranda asked, her interest piqued.

"I was told not to allow anyone to disturb Master Ramsay." He shuffled his feet, staring at the ground.

"And that should include me?" Myranda fumed. She huffed a deep breath and pushed past Ramsay's newest pet to open the door to the bedroom but Reek slipped directly in front of her. She reached around him, livid, and grasped for the door knob. The knob would not twist, it was locked.

She heard the distinct sound of a female. A guttural scream accompanied by a cacophony of moans. "Who is that?" Myranda whispered. "Who is in there with him?" She was trying hard to quell the jealousy and anger boiling inside of her.

"I – I – I do not know her name, m'lady." Reek muttered, trying meekly to push her back from the door. "It would be best if you go. You do not want to anger m'lord. He will punish me if you do not go."

The girl glared at Ramsay's creation. "You do not presume to tell me what it is I will do, Reek. Do not forget that I can wield a weapon as swiftly and as surely as your master can." With that, she turned and left the hall to cry quietly in her quarters.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the next evening before Ramsay came to Myranda's room. She lay on her bed reading Dance of the Dragons and barely heard him enter. This is where she had spent most of her day, curled up on her expensive down comforter enthralled in engulfing her self in another world.

"Reek tells me you came to my chambers last night." Ramsay quipped.

Myranda did not reply. She focused on the words on the page. She kept her head down and continued to read.

"I asked you a question." Ramsay growled, obviously losing his patience quickly.

"No, you did not." Myranda replied. She slammed the book shut and turned to face Ramsay, now sitting up on her feather bed.

Ramsay scoffed. "No, perhaps I did not. But it was implied."

"I do not fare well with implications, my lord. I would prefer we only state facts."

"Well, then the fact is you came to my chambers last night and did not heed Reek's warnings. You heard me fucking someone else and ran like a simpering maid."

"I did not run." She growled. "I left with my dignity."

"If that is how you see it, love." Ramsay smirked.

Myranda sighed. "Who is she?"

"Who?" Ramsay grinned.

Myranda rolled her eyes. "Do not toy with me. The bitch you were fucking! Who was she?"

Ramsay shrugged. "Only Tansy, the milk maid."

"Tansy." Myranda seethed. "Like the yellow weed?"

Ramsay smirked. "Jealousy does not suit you, sweetling."

"Jealous? Of what?" Myranda rolled to the edge of the bed, her feet dangling off of its high edge. "I am sure she is plain and ugly, as her name suggests."

"Oh, my dear…" He mused. "It matters not what she looks like above the waist. You are so predictable.

Jealous that I had my cock buried inside the little blonde milk maid's sweet little cunt."

Myranda growled in her throat. The glint in his eye told her all she needed to know. He was baiting her. Well, two could play at this game. "Perhaps then, if her cunt is so sweet and tight, you no longer have a need for mine."

The bastard scowled at the brunette maiden. "Well, sweetling, I fear I have already grown bored of you. It's a pity I cannot have you killed."

Myranda's heart ached, but she could not help but ask, "And why not? What makes me so special?"

The bastard Snow raised his brow, his eyes smiling at her soul. "Because, pet, of all the maids in the Fort, you would be the one my father would notice missing." He walked up to her, his hand wrapped around her neck, pulling her into his chest. He whispered, close to her ear. "If I were to kill you, I would like for you to see the look on his face when he finds out your little secret, first."

"You are just as guilty as I." She hissed. "And we both know that we have come too far for you to kill me now."

Ramsay Snow pulled back from Myranda with a laugh. "Is that really how you see this playing out, silly girl?" He chuckled. "You may just be the key to earning my father's love. Imagine, what if I were to turn in the bitch who took my sweet baby brother, Domeric's, life?"

Myranda's soul felt like it was being crushed. She could not help but cry silent, pained tears. "If that is what you need, then by all means, tell your father what you had me do." She sobbed. "I would not reveal you. Not like that."

Ramsay lovingly stroked the vixen's hair. "Oh, sweetling… You make this far too easy."

Myranda struggled to gasp between sobs. "Can you not see that I love you?"

"I see it all too clearly, my love. Your actions are transparent and cliché." He hummed. "I must admit, though, they also seem sincere and I find that rather refreshing."

Myranda regained control of herself through a hiccup in her heartfelt sobs. "You mock me, Ramsay."

"Yes, pet. But isn't that just part of our game?"

"I grow tired of these games! I want a future!" She screamed. "I want you."

"You have me." He rolled his eyes. "For now."

"I have nothing!" She howled. "I do everything you ask, I am everything you want and still you turn to another for an easy fuck!"

"Is that all you want, Myranda?" He yelled back, his temper reaching its peak. "You want me to fuck you?"

"No! I never want you to fuck me again if it means we keep playing these stupid fucking games!" She moved to slap him, to ward him away from her and give her some space, but he caught her wrist.

"You cannot tell me I cannot fuck you!" He roared. "I own you, bitch. Do not forget that!"

"You may own my heart, Snow, but you do not own me. That privilege belongs to the one person you cannot win over." The back of his hand struck her cheek, knocking her back onto the bed and stunning her silent.

"I own you, Myranda. Your heart, your soul, your body… all the way down to your sweet, tight little cunt." He grabbed the hem of her shift dress and shoved it up her legs. She tried to slap his hands away and scream, but it spurred him on. When she tried to scurry away, he grabbed her ankles and drug her back. "I will take what's mine, little vixen." He purred, gathering her skirt around her waist.

By now she was wet and wanting, her body reacting when her mind lost control. She could not deny him because it meant denying herself of her deepest, darkest desire. Instead, Myranda lay there, pretending to fight off her soul's lust only to make him happy. She had become too good at this game.

He pinned her hands above her head with one hand as he worked his breeches down over his hips with the other. He leaned down to kiss her as he pushed his thick cock into her infernal heat with little resistance and she growled, sinking her teeth into the flesh of his lower lip.

"What about what I want?" She gasped as he pounded into her.

"Do not fool yourself, my sweet." He chuckled. "This is what you want."

"I still have other desires." She moaned as his cock stroked her insides.

Ramsay cackled at that. "What makes you think that I care?"

She twisted in his grip and bit his forearm, drawing blood. As he howled, stunned, she used this to her advantage, pivoting her hips she pulled away from him, rolling her tormentor over onto his back. She ripped her simple shift dress off over her head exposing her lean torso, her jutting hip bones, and her modest breasts.

As he moaned sadistically from the pain, she kicked her leg over his hips and sank down onto him, her wet heat swallowed him whole, inch by rippling inch. She leaned down, her face inches from his. She did not move, only relished the feeling of this new angle she had created with her position above him. She laced her fingers into his hair. "You care. I know you do or else you would not have come here to find out why I stormed away last night." She stroked the back of his neck, pressing her thumb over his air way to keep him from replying. "I want you to get rid of her." She hissed, rising enough to force the bulbous head of his cock to stroke her inner wall just right, the base of his cock massaged her clit just so. "I want to be the only one who can make you feel this good." She purred, grinding her hips into his.

His airway still blocked by her thumb, she leaned in to kiss his pale lips, taking his last breath from his lungs. His eyes rolled back as he closed them, but Myranda held back, rising off of him before sinking back down, painfully slow, even for her. "Yes…" He struggled to hiss the word through clenched teeth.

Myranda drew her hand away in time for him to gasp. "What was that?"

Ramsay's hand tangled in her hair and he drew her even closer as she ground herself on him. "We can take the bitch to the woods if that is what you desire."

"More." She moaned, feeling the flutter build in her lower belly.

Ramsay ran his hands down her back to dig his fingers into her backside, helping to move her lithe form up and down his shaft. "When my father returns from the Riverlands… if he destroys the Starks and gains the North in return… I will ask for your hand in marriage."

Myranda placed her hands on her lord's chest and rose up to look him in the eye. "Please do not make this another game, Ramsay." She whimpered. "Do not say things you do not mean."

"I mean it." He grunted, pushing his hips upward to make a painful point. "A proper lord's bastard must wed to earn his title and all that is due him. If my father holds the north in his hands, he will move on toward Winterfell to rule the land as he sees fit. That would me castellan of the Dreadfort." His voice was low, stating facts in the most serious tone. Then he shrugged. "I would not mind so much if it were you whom I was legally bound to."

"Ramsay…" She hissed. She crouched down and kissed him with every fiber of her being and he pushed her body down onto his cock. With that final thrust, he sealed her fate. Her whole body came undone, withering around him, the muscles contracting inside of her milked the semen from him, blowing his seed deep inside her fluttering walls until they were both one.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Myranda cowered on the bed, knees tucked into her chest with the down comforters wrapped around her. Her entire body was wound tight. She had been so unsettled, gaining the upper hand for once with Ramsay in their sexual escapades. The rapping at the door halted her eminent orgasm and Ramsay was called to the hall ad wisked away. He barely had time to pull on his trousers. The Dreadfort was under attack._

_"Stay in bed, sweetling. I should not be long." Ramsay had said._

_She believed him._

_Of course, despite her fully cemented faith in Ramsay and his resounded wit and strength, Myranda could not help but be nervous. She had no idea who could be attacking her home in the middle of the night while she and her lover, her fiancé, were in the middle of coital bliss._

_She tucked her chin into her knees and wept for what felt like hours, unmoving and perfectly miserable. They had been through so much and she had come so far, diminishing the competition just as she was trained to do. Ramsay had to come back, unscathed and unharmed, or it all would be for naught._

_When the door finally opened and Ramsay stood there, bare chested and bare foot, his chest glistened in sweat partially covered in blood. "Ramsay…" She whimpered, leaping up from the bed, she rushed towards him, practically leaping into his chest. Her naked form melded to him, smearing the wet blood between them both._

_"Fucking Ironborn scum thought they would be able to come here unannounced. They thought they might over throw us and rescue their precious prince. Theon's big sister tried to take me and my men all by herself, fucking cunt…"_

_She pulled back, gripping his arms, looking over that glorious, chiseled torso of his for entry wounds. "Are you hurt?"_

_"None of this blood came from my veins."_

_Relieved and still concupiscent, she ran her forefinger up his abdomen through a particularly thick stream of blood, bringing the sanguine fluid up to her lips all while looking him straight in the eye. She hummed at the salty, sharp taste of their fallen enemies._

_Ramsay growled in the back of his throat and grabbed her face, smashing their lips together until every inch of their bodies collided, covering them both in the blood of their deceased foes. The thick ridge of his swollen cock dug into her boney hip and he walked her backwards until her knees hit the bed and she fell backwards onto the feather mattress._

Myranda shuddered as she shook the memory, standing in formation at the portcullis in the center of the Dreadfort's great walls.

She awoke early this morning, like every morning since Ramsay had left for Moat Cailin, She bathed and dressed and ate the last of the summer fruit and some porridge for breakfast. She was just finishing her meal when the trumpets sounded at the gates. Someone was approaching the fortress.

She stood as still as she could manage, hands clasped in front of her. A few of the other whores from her hall stood near her, Maggie stood just behind her on the right. All the peasants and serfs of the land gathered, waiting impatiently for the army to approach. From the muttering and gossip surrounding her, she had learned that the approaching hoard of men carried the Bolton banner. It was indeed the banner men returning, but the questions still swirled in her mind. She hoped they were victorious. She hoped Ramsay was safe.

Of course Ramsay was with them. Of course he had prevailed. Just like the night the Pyke's failed to overthrow the Bolton's and steal their beloved prince in the middle of the night. Myranda had no doubt in her mind that Ramsay had taken Moat Cailin for his father. He had to be successful if they were indeed still betrothed to wed.

Her breath stilled as the portcullis began to draw. It seemed as though time stopped and the gate took a century to rise until the horses and soldiers funneled into the outer ward.

Lord Roose Bolton led the army inside and the crowd erupted in cheers. Myranda did not join them. Her gaze focused on the army. She spotted her father, just to the left of Lord Bolton, with a hint of a smile on his lips. She found Damon and his haphazard blonde hair on his mahogany steed. Then, standing just behind him, Blood pranced his feet in the mud and she followed the stallions muscled flanks upon until she found Ramsay's dark, clouded eyes and vicious, malicious smile.

"The North is ours!" Roose bellowed and the crowd surrounding them roared.

Myranda's heart fluttered and she began to clap along with the serfs.

The Bolton's held the North in the palm of their hands. Ramsay was all hers and he had promised her the world. Everything was falling into place for Myranda.

Then Roose held up one gloved hand to silence the crowd once more. "I have one more…development to announce." Roose bellowed. He motioned Ramsay forward and Blood stomped his hoof and obeyed. "My son, Ramsay." He began, brandishing a rolled sheet of parchment. "I have here, by royal decree, a document signed and notarized by King Tommen Baratheon himself legitimizing my son. He will now and forever be known as Ramsay Bolton, only son and heir to Lord Roose Bolton, Warden of the North."

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Myranda ran the entire way, into the manor, down the hall, up the winding staircase, and into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Legitimizing Ramsay was the last thing Myranda had suspected. It was something they had not planned on. It changed the entire game.

Roose was Warden of the North and sole ruler of the largest territory in Westeros. If Ramsay were a proper Lord, a true and legitimate Bolton heir, than more would be expected of him. This left her standing alone in the dark, unsure if the promises he had made her in the throes of passion held any weight.

Her mind reeled with ideas of what would happen in the coming months. All of her fantasies over the past few weeks in the wake of Ramsay's absence were falling at her feet. Instead of planning a modest wedding and becoming lady of the Dreadfort with Lord Roose relocated to Winterfell, Myranda may soon be attending her own funeral. Or worse yet, another wedding. One where she was a witness and by stander. The kennel master's daughter had no business wedding the legitimized Bolton heir. She was labeled a common whore now. She would have no other prospects. If Ramsay could not hold his promise, her fate was sealed.

Hours passed where Myranda paced and fretted about her next move. Though the game was becoming easier for her to predict and excel at, she found herself always needing exit strategies and back up plans.

A rhythmic rapping at the door silenced her thoughts. "Who's there?" She called.

"Playing hard to get, are we?" Ramsay chuckled. "Come, my sweet. Unlock the door."

Like a good little whore, she did as she was told, letting the newly legalized Bolton heir into her chambers. "Why, Lord Bolton!" She seethed. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ramsay snickered. "No pleasure yet, I am afraid. Silly girl, I have been asked to bring you to my father's study."

Myranda nearly collapsed right there, her mouth had gone dry and her palms dripped with sweat.

Ramsay chuckled. "Come, dear. My patience wanes."

He had to practically drag her out of the room. In the hallway, they found Reek waiting for them beside the door and he shuffled after them, remaining silent. They ventured down the stairs, along the corridor to a nook in the manor she had never been to before. They entered the room and Roose sat behind a desk. The large oak furnishing was covered in maps and thick parchment papers. "Ah, Myranda." Roose boomed, locking eyes with the girl.

Ramsay prodded her back, prompting her to speak. "Lord Bolton." She hissed, through clenched teeth.

"Leave us." Roose glared at Ramsay. The bastard look stunned, but only a moment. He turned and left the room quietly, his loyal Greyjoy pet following close behind him, shutting the door in their wake. "I assume you have heard the news."

Her knees still felt unsteady and she was shivering, her limbs feeling limp and weak. "What news is that, my lord?"

Roose smiled. "We move on towards Winterfell within the fortnight, girl." He proclaimed. "I need to govern the North from its epicenter."

"Understandable." Myranda uttered.

"I suppose this means that Ramsay has yet to tell you… He will be joining me there. We are leaving the Dreadfort in the capable hands of Locke until other arrangements can be made."

Myranda's eyes bulged and she swallowed hard. Ramsay was leaving and she would be left here. Left here with Locke, who had promised to make her life a living hell.

"I should congratulate you on succeeding with our little… arrangement. Though no lives were spared in my absence, I have noticed quite a change in my bastard since you arrived back home. Though I cannot say that I love my son, I can now say that I am truly proud of him."

"I do not know what to say." Myranda whispered.

"You do not have to say anything. Pack your possessions." He explained. "You will be joining us in Winterfell." With that, he left her speechless and turned back to marking out plans on the map before him.

Myranda turned and left the room. She had scarcely shut the door behind her before Ramsay had spun her, back pressed against the wall and his thumb pressed to her larynx. Reek shuffled just beside them, blushing and looking away from the pair towards his feet. "Has father told you the good news?" Ramsay's eye teeth peeked out just below his upper lip as he smiled and his eyes were a tempered, dark shade of gray.

"I thought you had told him. You led me in there believing I was headed to my death." She growled, straining to speak.

Ramsay chuckled. "Oh, no, pet. I did not earn my father's affections by sharing our little secret…Reek played his part well. I became a legitimate Bolton heir by taking what was rightfully ours."

"Then what you promised?" Myranda hissed.

"Will be discussed once we are settled in our new home, my love." Ramsay playfully nipped her chin. Before he could move, she dove in and sealed their union with a firey kiss. She moaned, melting into Ramsay because he was all there was, even if their future was uncertain. Just before releasing his grip on her throat and pulling away from her, he growled at her, nipping her lower lip. He took her hand, patting it gently. "Come now, sweetling. I am filthy and weary from my travels. Let us retire for the night."

She had no other choice. Myranda followed Ramsay into the darkness because it was the only plan she had left. She was invited to move to Winterfell with the promise of staying close to her true love.

Her future may be blurry and bleak, but for now she had won.


End file.
